I 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


RUTH  COMFORT  MITCHELL 


Books  by 
RUTH  COMFORT  MITCHELL 


CORDUROY 

NARRATIVES    IN    VERSE 

JANE    JOURNEYS    ON 

PLAY  THE   GAME 


D.      APPLETON      AND      COMPANY 

New  York  London 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 

BY 

RUTH  COMFORT   MITCHELL 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK       : :       LONDON       : :     1924 


COPYRIGHT,   1921,   BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1920,  by  The  Crowell  Publishing  Company 

PRINTED   IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMEBICA. 


TO 
MY  BROTHERS 


663623 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


CHAPTER 


^  •  ^HERE  was  no  denying. the  faot  i)hat 

1       Carmody  liked  the  boys.     No  one  ever  at- 

•*•     tempted  to  deny  it,  least  of  all  Honor  herself. 

When  she  finished  grammar  school  her  mother  and 
her  gay  young  stepfather  told  her  they  had  decided 
to  send  her  to  Marlborough  rather  than  to  the  Los 
Angeles  High  School. 

The  child  looked  utterly  aghast.  "Oh,"  she  said, 
"I  wouldn't  like  that  at  all.  I  don't  believe  I  could. 
I  couldn't  bear  it!" 

"My  dear,"  her  mother  chided,  "don't  be  silly! 
It's  a  quite  wonderful  school,  known  all  over  the 
country.  Girls  are  sent  there  from  Chicago  and 
New  York,  and  even  Boston.  You'll  be  with  the 
best  girls,  the  very  nicest " 

"That's  just  it,"  Honor  interrupted,  forlornly. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 
1 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


"Girls.  Just  girls.  Oodles  and  oodles  of  nothing 
but  girls.  Honestly,  Muzzie,  I  don't  think  I  could 
stand  it."  She  was  a  large,  substantial  young  crea 
ture  with  a  broad  brow  and  hearty  coloring  and 
candid  eyes.  Her  stepfather  was  sure  she  would 
never  have  her  mother's  beauty,  but  he  was  almost 
equally  sure  that  she  would  never  need  it.  He 
'Studied  her*  ;o'lf)is£l$  and  her  actions  and  reactions 
intrigued,  him.,  ,He , laughed,  now,  and  his  wife 
ittrJieft  mildly,  .shodkecl  eyes  on  him. 

"Stephen,  dear!  Don't  encourage  her  in  being 
queer.  I  don't  like  her  to  be  queer."  Mrs.  Lorimer 
was  not  in  the  least  queer  herself,  unless,  indeed,  it 
was  queer  to  be  startlingly  lovely  and  girlish  and 
appealing  at  forty-one,  with  a  second  husband  and 
six  children.  She  was  not  an  especially  motherly 
person  except  in  moments  of  reproof  and  then  she 
always  spoke  in  a  remote  third  person.  "Honor, 
Mother  wants  you  to  be  more  with  girls."  Then, 
as  if  to  make  it  clear  that  she  was  not  merely  ad 
vancing  a  personal  whim, — "You  need  to  be  more 
with  girls." 

"Why?" 

"Why — why  because  Mother  says  you  do."  Mrs. 
Lorimer  did  not  like  to  argue.  She  always  got  out 
of  breath  and  warm-looking. 

2 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


Her  daughter  dropped  on  the  floor  at  her  feet. 
Mrs.  Lorimer  had  small,  happy-looking,  lily-of-the- 
field  hands  and  Honor  took  one  of  them  between  her 
hard  brown  paws  and  squeezed  it.  "I  know,  but — 
why  do  you  say  so?  I  don't  know  anything  about 
girls.  Why  should  I,  when  I've  had  eight  boy 
cousins  and  five  boy  brothers  and" — she  gave 
Stephen  Lorimer  a  brief,  friendly  grin — "and  two 
boy  fathers!"  Her  stepfather  was  not  really 
younger  than  his  wife  but  he  was  incurably  boyish. 
The  girl  grew  earnest.  "Please,  pretty-please,  let 
me  go  to  L.  A.  High!  IVe  counted  on  it  so! 
And" — she  was  as  intent  and  free  from  self -con 
sciousness  as  a  terrier  at  a  rat  hole — "all  the  boys 
I  know  are  going  to  L.  A.  High!  And  Jimsy's 
going,  and  he'll  need  me!" 

Her  stepfather  laughed  again  and  lighted  a  ciga 
rette.  "She  has  you  there,  Mildred.  He  will  need 
her." 

"Of  course  he  will."  Honor  turned  a  grateful 
face  to  him.  "I'll  have  to  do  all  his  English  and 
Latin  for  him,  so  he  can  get  signed  up  every  week 
and  play  football!" 

Mrs.  Lorimer  did  not  see  why  her  daughter's 
finishing  need  be  curtailed  by  young  James  King's 
athletic  activities  and  she  started  in  to  say  so  with 

3 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


vigor  and  emphasis,  but  her  husband  held  up  his 
long  beautifully  modeled  hand  rather  in  the  man 
ner  of  a  traffic  policeman  and  stopped  her. 

"Look  here,  Mildred,"  he  said,  "suppose  you  and 
I  convene  in  special  session  and  consider  this  thing 
from  all  angles  and  then  let  her  know  what  it  cornea 
to,— shall  we?  Eun  along,  Top  Step!" 

"All  right,  Stepper,"  said  the  child,  relievedly. 
"You  explain  it  to  her."  She  went  contentedly 
away  and  a  moment  later  they  heard  her  robust 
young  voice  lifted  on  the  lawn  next  door, — "Jim-zee! 
Oh,  Jimsy!  Come-mawn-oi^/" 

"You  see?"  Mrs.  Lorimer  wanted  rather  inac 
curately  to  know.  "That's  what  we've  got  to  stop, 
Stephen." 

He  smiled.  "But — as  your  eldest  offspring  just 
now  inquired — why?" 

"Why?"  She  lifted  her  hands  and  let  them  fall 
into  her  lap  again,  palm  upward,  and  regarded  him 
in  gentle  exasperation.  "Stephen,  you  know,  really, 
sometimes  I  feel  that  you  are  not  a  bit  of  help  to 
me  with  the  children." 

"Sometimes  you  do,  I  daresay,"  he  granted  her, 
serenely,  "but  most  of  the  time  you  must  be  simply 
starry-eyed  with  gratitude  over  the  brilliant  way  I 
manage  them.  Come  along  over  here  and  we'll  talk 

4 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


it  over!"     He  patted  the  place  beside  him  on  the 
couch. 

"You  mean,"  said  his  wife  a  little  sulkily,  going, 
nevertheless,  "that  you'll  talk  me  over!" 

"That  is  my  secret  hope,"  said  Stephen  Lorimer. 

It  was  all  quite  true.  He  did  manage  her  children 
and  their  children — there  were  three  of  each — with 
astonishing  ease  and  success.  They  amused  him,  and 
adored  him.  He  understood  them  utterly.  Honor 
was  seven  when  her  own  father  died  and  nine  when 
her  mother  married  again.  Stephen  Lorimer  would 
never  forget  her  first  inspection  of  him.  Nurse 
maids  had  done  their  worst  on  the  subject  of  step 
fathers;  fairy  tales  had  presented  the  pattern.  He 
knew  exactly  what  was  going  on  in  her  mind,  and — 
quite  as  earnestly  beneath  his  persiflage  as  he  had 
set  himself  to  woo  the  widow — he  set  himself  to  win 
her  daughter.  It  was  a  matter  of  moments  only  be 
fore  he  saw  the  color  coming  back  into  her  square 
little  face  and  the  horror  seeping  out  of  her  eyes. 
It  was  a  matter  of  days  only  until  she  sought  him 
out  and  told  him,  in  her  mother's  presence,  that  she 
believed  she  liked  him  better  than  her  first  father. 

"Honor,  dear!     You — you  mustn't,  really " 

Mildred   Lorimer   insisted   with   herself   on   being 
shocked. 

5 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"Don't  you,  Muzzle  ?  Don't  you  like  him  better  ?" 
the  child  wanted  persistently  to  know.  "He  was 
very  nice,  of  course;  I  did  like  him  awfully.  But 
he  was  always  'way  off  Down  Town  ...  at  The 
Office.  We  didn't  have  any  fun  with  him.  Stepper's 
always  home.  I'm  glad  we  married  a  newspaper  one 
this  time." 

"Stephen,  that  dreadful  name.  .  .  .  What  will 
people  think  ?" 

Her  new  husband  didn't  in  the  least  care.  He 
and  Honor  had  gravely  considered  on  that  first  day 
what  they  should  call  each  other.  It  seemed  to 
Stephen  Lorimer  that  it  was  hardly  fair  to  the 
gentleman  who  had  stayed  so  largely  at  The  Office 
to  have  his  big  little  daughter  and  his  tiny  sons 
calling  his  successor  Father  or  Dad,  and  Papa  with 
all  its  shades  and  shifts  of  accent  left  him  cold. 
"Let's  see,  Honor.  '  Stepfather'  as  a  salutation 
sounds  rather  accusing,  doesn't  it?  'Step-pa/  now, 
is  less  austere,  but " 

"Oh,  Stephen,  dear!"  They  were  not  consulting 
Mrs.  Lorimer  at  all. 

"I've  got  it!  It's  an  inspiration!  'Stepper!' 
Neat,  crisp,  brisk.  Means,  if  any  one  should  ask 
you,  ' Step-pa'  and  also,  literally,  stepper ;  a  stepper ; 
one  who  steps — into  another's  place." 

6 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


"Stephen " 

"Well,  haven't  I,  my  dear?"  He  considered  the 
three  young  Carmodys,  nine,  seven,  and  five.  "Steps 
yourselves,  aren't  you?  Honor's  the  top  step 
and " 

"Oh,  Stepper,  call  me  Top  Step!    I  like  that." 

"Right.  And  Billy's  Bottom  Step  and  Ted's  the 
Tweeny!  Now  we're  all  set!" 

"Yes,"  said  Honor,  contentedly.  She  herded  her 
little  brothers  out  of  the  room  and  came  back  alone. 
"But— what'll  I  tell  people  you  are?" 

"Why,  I  think,"  he  considered,  "you're  young 
enough  and  trusting  enough  to  call  me  A  Writer." 

"I  mean,  are  you  Muzzie's  step-husband,  too  ?" 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  the  lightness 
leave  his  eyes.  "No.  No.  I  am  your  moth — I  am 
her  husband.  There  is  no  step  there."  He  got  up 
and  walked  over  to  where  his  wife  was  sitting  and 
towered  over  her.  He  was  a  tall  man  and  he  looked 
especially  tall  at  that  moment.  "Her  plain — hus 
band.  Extremely  plain,  as  it  happens" — he  was 
himself  again  for  an  instant — "but — her  husband." 
It  seemed  to  the  child  that  he  had  forgotten  which 
one  of  them  had  asked  him  the  question  and  was  ad 
dressing  himself  to  her  mother  by  mistake.  He 
seemed  at  once  angry  and  demanding  and  anxious, 

7 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


and  she  had  never  seen  her  mother  so  pink.  However, 
her  question  had  been  answered  and  she  had  affairs 
of  her  own.  She  went  away  without  a  backward 
glance  so  she  did  not  see  her  stepfather  drop  to  his 
knees  beside  the  chair  and  gather  the  quiet  woman 
roughly  into  his  arms,  nor  hear  his  insistent  voice. 
"Her  husband.  The  first — husband — she — ever  had. 
Say  it,  Mildred.  Say  it." 

And  now  Honor  was  thirteen  and  a  half,  and 
tardily  ready  for  High  School,  and  there  were  three 
little  Lorimers,  twins  and  a  six  months'  old  single. 
Stephen  Lorimer,  who  had  been  a  singularly  foot 
loose  world  rover,  had  settled  down  securely  in  the  old 
Carmody  house  on  South  Figueroa  Street.  He  was 
intensely  proud  of  his  paternity,  personal  and  vicari 
ous,  and  took  it  not  seriously  but  joyously.  He  was 
dramatic  critic  and  special  writer  for  the  leading 
newspaper  of  Los  Angeles,  and  theoretically  he 
worked  by  night  and  slept  by  day,  but  as  a  matter 
of  puzzling  fact  he  did  not  sleep  at  all,  unless  one 
counted  his  brief  morning  naps.  His  eyes,  in  conse 
quence,  seemed  never  to  be  quite  open,  but  nothing, 
nevertheless,  escaped  them. 

An  outsider,  looking  in  on  them  now,  the  erect,  hot- 
cheeked,  imperious  woman,  a  little  insolent  always 
of  her  beauty,  and  the  lolling,  lounging  man  with 

8 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


the  drooping  lids,  would  have  placed  his  odds  un 
hesitatingly  on  her  winning  of  any  point  she  might 
have  in  mind.  Even  Mildred  Lorimer  herself,  after 
four  years  and  a  half  of  being  married  to  him, 
thought  she  would  win  out  over  him  this  time.  Honor 
was  the  only  daughter  she  had,  the  only  daughter 
she  would  ever  have,  for  she  had  definitely  decided, 
at  forty-one,  to  cease  her  dealings  with  the  long- 
legged  bird  who  had  flapped  six  times  to  her  roof,  and 
it  seemed  intolerable  to  her  that — with  five  boys — her 
one  girl  should  be  so  robustly  ungirlish. 

"Now,  then,  let's  have  it.  You  want  Honor  to 
go  to  Marlborough.  As  she  herself  asked  and  I 
myself  repeated, — why  ?" 

"And  as  I  answered  you  both,"  said  his  wife,  try 
ing  hard  to  keep  the  conversation  spinning  lightly  in 
the  air  as  he  did,  "it's  because  I  want  her  to  be  more 
like  other  girls." 

"And  I,"  said  her  husband,  "do  not."  This  was 
the  place  for  Mildred  Lorimer  to  fling  her  own  why 
but  her  husband  was  too  quick  for  her.  "Because 
she  is  so  much  finer  and  sounder  and  saner  and 
sweeter  as  she  is.  Mildred,  I  have  never  seen  any 
living  creature  so  selfless.  What  was  the  word  they 
coined  in  that  play  about  Mars? — 'Ofherdom?' 
That's  it,  yes;  otherdom.  That's  Honor  Carmody. 

9 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


She  could  have  finished  grammar  school  at  twelve, 
but  Jimsy  needed  her  help." 

"That's  just  it !    Can't  you  see  how  wrong  that  is  ?" 

"!N"o.  I'm  too  much  occupied  with  seeing  how 
right  it  is.  Good  Lord,  my  dear,  in  a  world  given 
over  to  the  first  person  perpendicular,  can't  you  see 
the  amazing  heauty  and  rarity  of  your  child's  soul? 
Every  day  and  all  day  long  she  gives  herself, — to 
you,  to  me,  to  the  kiddies,  to  her  friends.  She  is  the 
eternal  mother."  Mildred  Lorimer  was  not  the  eter 
nal  mother.  She  was  not  in  fact  a  mother  at  all. 
The  physical  fact  of  motherhood  had  six  times  de 
scended  upon  her  and  she  was  doing  her  gentle,  well- 
bred,  conscientious  best  in  six  lively  directions,  but 
under  it  all  she  was  forever  Helen,  forever  the  best 
beloved.  She  was  getting  rather  beyond  her  depth 
but  she  was  not  giving  up.  Stephen,  in  discussion, 
had  an  elusive  way  of  soaring  into  hazy  generalities. 
She  brought  him  down. 

"I  can't  see  why  it  should  make  her  any  less  un^ 
selfish  to  attend  the  best  girls'  school  than  to — to  run 
with  the  boys."  She  brought  out  the  little  vulgarism 
with  a  faint  curl  of  her  lovely  lip. 

"  'Run  with  the  boys !'  That  has  a  positively 
Salem  flavor,  hasn't  it?  Almost  as  deadly,  that 
'with/  as  'after.' "  He  loved  words,  Stephen  Lori- 

10 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


mer;  lie  played  with  them  and  juggled  them.  "Yet 
isn't  that  exactly  what  the  girls  of  to-day  must  and 
should  do?  Isn't  it  what  the  girls  of  to-morrow — 
naturally,  unrebuked — will  do?  Not  running  after 
them,  slyly  or  brazenly ;  not  sitting  at  home,  crimped 
and  primped  and  curled,  waiting  to  be  run  after. 
!N"o,"  he  said  hotly,  getting  up  and  beginning  to  swal 
low  up  the  room  from  wall  to  wall  with  his  long 
strides,  ffno!  With  them.  Running  with  them, 
chin  in,  chest  out,  sound,  conditioned,  unashamed!" 
He  believed  that  he  meant  to  write  a  tremendous 
book,  one  day,  Honor's  stepfather.  He  often  reeled 
off  whole  chapters  in  his  mind,  warm  and  glowing. 
It  was  only  when  he  got  it  down  on  paper  that  it 
cooled  and  congealed.  "Running  with  them  in  the 

race — for  the  race "  his  hurtling  promenade 

took  him  to  the  window  and  he  paused  for  an  instant. 
"Come  here,  Mildred.  Look  at  her!" 

Mildred  Lorimer  came  to  join  him.  On  the  shab 
by,  rusty  lawn  of  the  King  place,  next  door,  all  the 
rustier  for  its  nearness  to  their  own  emerald  turf, 
sat  Honor  Carmody  and  Jimsy  King,  jointly  and 
severally  lacing  up  a  football. 

"Yes,  look  at  her !"  said  her  mother  with  feeling. 

"Leave  her  alone,  Mildred.    Leave  her  alive!" 

The  two  children  were  utterly  absorbed.  The  boy 
11 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


was  half  a  head  taller  than  the  girl,  heavier,  sturdier, 
of  a  startling  beauty.  There  was  a  stubborn,  much 
reviled  wave  in  his  bronze  hair  and  his  eyes  were  a 
dark  hazel  flecked  with  black.  His  skin  was  bronze, 
too,  bronzed  by  many  Catalina  summer  and  winter 
swims  at  Ocean  Park.  It  made  his  teeth  seem  very 
white  and  flashing. 

The  window  was  open  to  the  soft  Southern  Califor 
nia  air,  and  the  voices  came  across  to  the  watchers. 

"Holditl" 

"I  am  holding  it!" 

A  handsome  man  of  forty  came  up  the  tree-shaded 
street,  not  quite  steadily,  and  turned  into  the  King's 
walk.  His  hat  was  pulled  low  over  his  eyes  and  the 
collar  of  his  coat  was  turned  up  in  spite  of  the  mild 
ness  of  the  day.  He  nodded  to  the  boy  and  girl 
as  he  went  past  them  and  on  into  the  house. 

"Again!"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer,  tragically.  "That's 
the  second  time  this  week !" 

"Kough  on  the  kid,"  said  her  husband.  "See  him 
now." 

Jimsy  King  had  turned  his  head  and  was  follow 
ing  his  father's  slow  progress  up  the  steps  and  across 
the  porch  and  into  the  house.  "Be  in  in  a  minute, 
Dad !"  he  called  after  him. 

"Loyal  little  beggar.    I  saw  him  steering  him  up 
12 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


Broadway  one  morning,  just  at  school  time. 
Pluck." 

Honor  had  looked  after  James  King,  the  elder, 
too,  and  then  at  his  son,  and  then  at  the  football  in 
her  hands  again.  "Hurry  up,"  she  commanded. 
"Pull  it  tighter !  Tighter!  Do  you  call  that  pull 
ing?"  Inexorably  she  got  his  attention  back  to  the 
subject  in  hand. 

"That  makes  it  all  the  worse,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer. 
"Of  course  they're  only  children — babies,  really — 
but  I  couldn't  have  anything.  .  .  .  It's  bad  blood, 
Stephen.  I  couldrii  have  my  child  interested  in  one 
of  the  Wild  Kings'!" 

"Well,  you  won't  have,  if  you're  wise.  Let  'em 
alone.  Let  'em  lace  footballs  on  the  front  lawn  .  .  . 
and  they  won't  hold  hands  on  the  side  porch !  Why, 
woman  dear,  like  the  well-known  Mr.  Job,  the  thing 
you  greatly  fear  you'll  bring  to  pass!  Shut  her  up 
in  a  girls'  school — even  the  best  and  sanest — and 
you'll  make  boys  suddenly  into  creatures  of  romance, 
remote,  desirable.  Don't  emphasize  and  underline 
for  her.  She's  as  clean  as  a  star  and  as  unself-con- 
scious  as  a  puppy!  Don't  hurry  her  into  what  one 
of  those  English  play-writing  chaps  calls — Granville 
Barker,  isn't  it? — Yes, — Madras  House — 'the  barn 
yard  drama  of  sex.  .  .  .  Male  and  female  created 

13 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


He  them  .  .  .  but  men  and  women  are  a  long  time 
in  the  making!' " 

The  lacing  of  the  football  was  finished.  The  boy 
lifted  his  head  and  looked  soberly  at  the  door  through 
which  his  father  had  entered,  not  quite  steadily. 
Then  he  drew  a  long  breath,  threw  back  his  shining 
bronze  head,  said  something  in  a  low  tone  to  the 
girl,  and  ran  into  the  house. 

Honor  Carmody  got  to  her  feet  and  stood  looking 
after  him,  the  odd  mothering  look  in  her  square 
child's  face.  She  stood  so  for  long  moments,  without 
moving,  and  her  mother  and  her  stepfather  watched 
her. 

Suddenly  Stephen  Lorimer  flung  the  window  up 
as  far  as  it  would  go  and  leaned  out. 

"It's  all  right,  Top  Step,"  he  called,  meeting  the 
leaping  gladness  of  her  glance.  "We've  decided,  your 
mother  and  I.  You're  going  to  L.  A.  High !  You're 

going "  but  now  he  dropped  his  voice  and  spoke 

only  for  the  woman  beside  him,  slipping  a  penitent 
and  conciliatory  arm  about  her,  his  eyes  impish, 
"you're  going  to  run  with  the  boys !" 


CHAPTEE  II 

THE  "Wild  Kings"  had  lived  in  their  fine  old 
house  ever  since  the  neighborhood  could  re 
member.  The  first  and  probably  the  wild 
est  of  them  had  come  out  from  Virginia 
when  Los  Angeles  was  still  a  drowsing  Spanish 
village,  bringing  with  him  an  aged  and  ex 
cellent  cellar  and  a  flock  of  negro  servants. 
Honor's  Carmody  grandmother  could  remember  the 
picturesqueness  of  his  entourage,  of  James  King 
himself,  the  hard-riding,  hard-drinking,  soft-spoken 
cavalier  with  his  proud,  pale  wife  and  his  slim,  high- 
stepping  horses  and  his  grinning  blacks.  The  gen 
eral  conviction  was,  Grandmother  Carmody  said, 
that  he  had  come — or  been  sent — west  to  make  a  fresh 
start.  There  was  something  rather  pathetically 
naive  about  that  theory.  There  could  never  be  a 
fresh  start  for  the  "Wild  Kings"  in  a  world  of  ex 
cellent  cellars  and  playing  cards.  In  a  surprisingly 
short  time  he  had  re-created  his  earlier  atmosphere 
for  himself — an  atmosphere  of  charm  and  cheer  and 

15 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


color  .  .  .  and  pride  and  shame  and  misery,  in 
which  his  wife  and  children  lived  and  moved  and  had 
their  being.  In  the  early  eighties  he  built  the  big 
beautiful  house  on  South  Figueroa  Street,  moved  the 
last  of  his  negro  servitors  and  the  last  of  his  cellar  and 
his  young  family  into  it  and  died.  Since  that  day 
Kings  had  come  and  gone  in  it,  big,  bonny  creatures, 
liked  and  sighed  over,  and  the  house  was  shabby  now, 
cracked  and  peeling  for  the  want  of  paint,  the  walks 
grass-grown,  the  lawn  frowzy,  lank  and  stringy  cur 
tains  at  the  dim  windows.  There  were  only  three 
bottles  of  the  historic  cellar  left  now,  precious,  cob- 
webbed  ;  there  was  only  one  of  the  blacks,  an  ancient, 
crabbed  crone  of  the  second  generation,  with  a  witch's 
hand  at  cookery  and  a  witch's  temper.  And  there  were 
only  James  King  III  and  James  King  IV,  his  son, 
Honor's  Jimsy,  left  of  the  line  in  the  old  home.  The 
negress  fed  and  mended  them ;  an  infrequent  Japanese 
came  in  to  make  futile  efforts  on  house  and  garden. 
The  neighbors  said,  "How  do  you  do,  Mr.  King? 
Like  summer,  really,  isn't  it?"  and  looked  hastily 
away.  One  never  could  be  sure  of  finding  him  quite 
himself.  Even  if  he  walked  quite  steadily  he  might 
not  be  able  to  talk  quite  steadily,  but  he  was  always 
a  King,  always  sure  of  his  manner,  be  he  ever  so 
unsure  of  his  feet  or  his  tongue.  He  had  been  worse 

16 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


since  his  wife  died,  when  the  boy  was  still  a  toddler. 
She  was  a  slim,  sandy-haired  Scotch  girl  with  steady 
eyes  and  a  prominent  chin,  who  had  married  him 
to  reform  him,  and  the  neighbors  were  beginning  to 
think  she  was  in  a  fair  way  to  compass  it  when  she 
died.  ~No  one  had  ever  been  able  to  pity  Jeanie 
King;  she  had  been  as  proud  as  the  pale  lady  who 
came  with  the  first  "Wild  King"  from  Virginia. 
There  was  that  about  the  Kings ;  it  had  to  be  granted 
that  their  women  always  stuck ;  they  must  have  had 
compensating  traits  and  graces.  No  King  wife  ever 
gave  up  or  deserted  save  by  death,  and  no  King  wife 
ever  wept  on  a  neighbor's  shoulder. 

And  now  they  had  all  wandered  back  to  Virginia 
or  up  to  Alaska  or  down  to  Mexico,  and  there  was 
not  an  uncle  or  cousin  of  his  tribe  left  in  Los  Angeles 
for  Jimsy  King;  only  his  bad,  beloved  father,  com 
ing  home  at  noon  in  rumpled  evening  dress,  but  wear 
ing  it  better  and  more  handily,  for  all  that,  than  any 
other  man  on  the  block. 

It  was  agreed  that  there  was  no  chance  for  Jimsy 
to  escape  the  heritage  of  his  blood.  People  were 
kind  about  it,  but  very  firm.  "If  his  mother  had 
lived  he  might  have  had  a  chance,  the  poor  boy," 
Mrs.  Lorimer  would  sigh,  "but  with  that  father, 

and  that  home  life,  and  that  example " 

17 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"My  dear/'  said  Stephen  Lorimer,  "can't  you  see 
what  you  are  doing?  By  you  I  mean  the  neighbor 
hood.  You  are  holding  his  heredity  up  like  a  hoop 
for  him  to  jump  through !" 

Honor's  stepfather  held  that  there  might  be  a  gen 
erous  share  of  the  firm-chinned  Scotch  mother  in 
Jimsy.  Certainly  it  was  a  fighting  chance;  he  was 
living  in  a  day  of  less  warmth  and  color  than  his 
father  and  his  forbears;  there  were  more  outlets 
for  his  interest  and  his  energy.  His  father,  for  in 
stance,  had  not  played  football.  Jimsy  had  played 
as  soon  as  he  could  walk  alone — football,  baseball, 
basketball,  handball,  water  polo;  life  was  a  hard 
and  tingling  game  to  him.  "It's  an  even  chance," 
said  Stephen  Lorimer,  "and  if  Honor's  palling  with 
him  can  swing  it,  can  we  square  it  with  ourselves  to 
take  her  away  from  him  ?"  He  carried  his  point,  as 
usual,  and  the  boy  and  the  girl  started  in  at  Los 
Angeles  High  on  the  same  day.  Honor  decided  on 
the  subjects  which  Jimsy  could  most  safely  take — 
the  things  he  was  strongest  in,  the  weak  subjects 
in  which  she  was  strong.  There  was  an  inexorable 
rule  about  being  signed  up  by  every  teacher  for  sat 
isfactory  work  on  Friday  afternoon  before  a  Satur 
day  football  game ;  it  was  as  a  law  of  the  Medes  and 
Persians;  even  the  teachers  who  adored  him  most 

18 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


needs  must  abide  by  it.  There  was  no  cajoling  any  of 
them ;  even  the  pretty,  ridiculously  young  thing  who 
taught  Spanish  maintained  a  Gibraltar-like  firmness. 

"You'll  simply  have  to  study,  Jimsy,  that's  all," 
said  Honor. 

"Study,  yes,  but  that's  not  learning,  Skipper!" 
(She  had  been  that  ever  since  her  first  entirely  sea 
worthy  summer  at  Catalina.)  "I  can  study,  if  I  have 
to,  but  that's  not  saying  I'll  get  anything  into  my 
sconce!  I'm  pretty  slow  in  the  head!" 

"I  know  you  are,"  said  Honor,  sighing.  "Of 
course,  you've  been  so  busy  with  other  things.  Think 
what  you've  done  in  athletics !" 

"Fast  on  the  feet  and  slow  in  the  head,"  he  grinned. 
"Well,  I'll  die  trying.  But  you've  got  to  stand  by, 
Skipper." 

"Of  course.  I'll  do  your  Latin  and  English  and 
part  of  your  Spanish." 

"Gee,  you're  a  brick." 

"It's  nothing."  She  dismissed  it  briefly.  "It's 
my  way  of  doing  something,  Jimsy,  that's  all.  It's 
the  only  way  I  can  be  on  the  team.  She  glowed  pink- 
ly  at  the  thought.  "When  I  sit  up  on  the  bleachers 
and  see  you  make  a  touchdown  and  hear  'em  yell — 
why  I'm  there  \  I'm  on  the  team  because  I've  helped 
a  little  to  keep  you  on  the  team !  It  almost  makes  up 

19 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


for  having  to  be  a  girl.  Just  for  the  moment,  I'm 
not  sitting  up  high,  clean  and  starched  and  safe; 
I'm  on  the  field,  hot  and  muddy  and  with  my  nose 
bleeding,  doing  something  for  L.  A.!  Fm  there !" 

Jimsy  slapped  her  on  the  shoulder  like  a  man  and 
brother.  "You're  there  all  the  time,  Skipper !  You're 
there  a  million !" 

He  made  the  first  team  the  first  day  he  went  out 
to  practice.  There  was  no  denying  him.  He  cap 
tained  the  team  the  second  year  and  every  year  until 
he  graduated,  a  year  late  for  all  his  friend's  un 
wearying  toil.  As  a  matter  of  fact  they  did  not  make 
a  special  effort  to  get  him  through  on  time ;  the  team 
needed  him,  the  squad  needed  him,  L.  A.  needed 
him.  It  was  more  like  a  college  than  a  High  School 
in  those  days,  with  its  numbers  and  its  spirit,  that 
strong,  intangible  evidence  of  things  not  seen.  There 
was  something  about  it,  a  concentrated  essence  of 
Jimsy  King  and  hundreds  of  lesser  Jimsy  Kings, 
which  made  it  practically  unconquerable.  In  the 
year  before  his  final  one  the  team  reached  its  shin 
ing  perfection  and  held  it  to  the  end.  It  is  still 
a  name  to  conjure  with  at  the  school  on  the  hill, 
Jimsy  King's.  The  old  teachers  remember ;  the  word 
comes  down.  "A  regular  old-time  L.  A.  team — the 
fighting  spirit  Like  the  days  of  Jimsy  King !" 

20 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


Other  teams  might  score  on  them ;  frequently  they 
could  not,  but  when  they  did  the  rooting  section  was 
not  dashed.  It  lifted  up  its  multiple  voice,  young, 
insolent,  unafraid,  in  mocking  song,  and  Honor 
Carmody,  just  on  the  edge  of  the  section,  beside  her 
stepfather,  sang  with  them : 

You  can't  beat  L.  A.  High! 
You  ca<n't  beat  L.  A.  High! 
Use  your  team  to  get  up  steam 
But  you  cant  beat  L.  A.  High! 

It  rolled  out  over  the  football  field  and  echoed 
away  in  the  soft  Southern  California  air.  It  was 
gay,  inexorable;  you  couldn't  beat  L.  A.  High,  field 
or  bleachers. 

Stephen  Lorimer  never  missed  a  game.  His  wife 
went  once  and  never  again. 

"I  suppose  I  am  too  sensitive,"  she  said,  "but  I 
can't  help  it.  It's  the  way  I'm  made.  I  simply  can 
not  endure  seeing  anything  so  brutal.  I  can't  un 
derstand  those  young  girls  .  .  .  and  the  mothersl" 
Two  of  her  own  were  on  the  second  team,  now,  but 
she  never  saw  them  play,  and  they  came  in  the  back 
way,  after  games  and  practice,  sneaking  up  to 
Honor's  room  with  their  black  eyes  and  their  gory 

21 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


noses  for  her  capable  first  aid.  She  was  not  one, 
Mildred  Lorimer,  into  whose  blood  something  of  the 
iron  had  entered.  Her  boys  bewildered  her  as  they 
grew  and  toughened  out  of  baby  fiber.  She  was  a 
little  unhappy  about  it,  but  she  was  more  beautiful 
than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  life,  and  freer,  with 
the  last  little  Lorimer  shifting  sturdily  for  himself 
and  his  father  more  in  love  with  her  than  ever.  She 
had  more  or  less  resigned  her  active  motherhood  to 
him.  The  things  she  might  have  done  for  Honor, 
the  selection  of  her  frocks  and  hats,  the  color  scheme 
of  her  room,  her  parties,  the  girl  at  seventeen  did 
efficiently  for  herself.  Her  childish  squareness  of 
face  and  figure  was  rounding  out  rather  splendidly 
and  she  had  a  sure  and  dependable  sense  of  what  to 
wear.  Her  things  were  good  in  line  and  color,  smart 
ly  simple.  She  had  thick  braids  of  honey-colored 
hair  wound  round  her  head ;  her  brow  was  broad  and 
calm,  her  gray  eyes  serene;  she  had  a  fresh  and 
hearty  color.  Stephen  Lorimer  believed  that  she  had 
a  voice.  She  sang  like  one  of  the  mocking  birds  in 
her  garden,  joyously,  radiantly,  riotously,  and  her 
stepfather,  who  knew  amazingly  many  great  per 
sons,  persuaded  a  famous  artist  to  hear  her  when  she 
gave  her  concert  in  Los  Angeles. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head,  "it  is  a  voice. 
22 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


It  is  a  voice.  A  little  teaching,  yes;  this  Barrett 
woman  who  was  once  my  pupil,  she  will  be  safe  with, 
her.  Not  too  muck;  not  too  much  singing.  Finish 
your  school,  my  little  one.  Then  you  shall  come 
over  to  me  for  a  year,  yes?  We  shall  see  what  we 
shall  see!"  She  patted  her  cheek  and  sent  her  out 
of  the  room  ahead  of  Stephen. 

"Well  ?"  he  wanted  to  know. 

"But  yes,  a  voice,  as  I  have  said.  Send  her  to  me 
when  her  schooling  is  over." 

"She  has  a  future?" 

The  great  contralto  shrugged  her  thick  shoulders. 
"I  fear  not.  I  think  not." 

His  face  lengthened.     "Why?" 

"Because,  my  friend,  she  will  care  more  for  living. 
She  will  not  care  so  greatly  to  get,  that  large  child. 
She  will  only  give.  She  has  not  the  fine  relentless 
selfishness  to  make  the  artist.  Well,  we  shall  see. 
Life  may  break  her.  Send  her  to  me.  In  two  years, 
yes  ?'  No,  no,  I  will  have  no  thanks.  It  is  so  small  a 
thing  to  do.  ...  One  grows  fat  and  old ;  it  is  good 
to  have  youngness  near.  Now,  go,  my  friend.  I 
shall  gargle  my  throat  and  sleep."  She  gave  him  a 
hot,  plump  hand  to  kiss. 

Honor  was  not  especially  impressed.  She  rather 
thought,  when  the  time  came,  she  should  prefer  to  go 

23 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


to  Stanford,  but  she  liked  her  music  lessons,  mean 
while.  It  filled  up  her  time,  the  business  of  singing, 
in  that  last  year  when  she  was  more  or  less  marking 
time  and  helping  Jimsy  through. 

Her  stepfather  watched  her  with  growing  amaze 
ment.  So  far  as  any  one  might  judge,  and  to  Mrs. 
Lorimer's  tearful  relief,  Honor's  attitude  toward  the 
last  of  the  "Wild  Kings"  was  at  seventeen  what  it 
had  been  at  twelve,  at  six. 

"I  was  right,  wasn't  I  ?"  Stephen  wanted  to  know. 

"Well  ...  if  you  can  only  keep  on  being  right 
about  it !  I'm  so  thankful  about  her  singing.  That 
year  abroad  will  be  wonderful.  She'll  meet  new 
people  .  .  .  real  men." 

"Young  Jimsy  is  exhibiting  every  known  symp^ 
torn  of  becoming  a  real  man." 

"Yes,  but  he's  a  King." 

"That  appears  to  be  the  universal  opinion  regard 
ing  him." 

"Stephen  dear,  don't  be  ridiculous!  You've  al 
ways  been  as  bewitched  about  the  boy  as  Honor 
herself."  Mrs.  Lorimer  was  dressed  for  a  luncheon 
and  her  husband,  heavy-eyed  and  flushed  of  face,  had 
cut  short  his  late  morning  sleep  to  drive  her.  She 
was  still  for  him  the  everlasting  Helen. 

"Mildred,"  he  said,  quitting  the  battlefield  for  the 
24 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


eternal  balcony,  "do  you  know  that  you  are  lovelier 
this  instant  than  you  were  the  day  I  married  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Lorimer  knew  it  quite  well.  It  was  due 
somewhat  to  good  management  as  well  as  luck,  and 
she  liked  having  the  results  appreciated.  She  let  him 
kiss  her,  carefully,  because  she  had  her  hat  on. 

The  elder  James  King  did  not  seem  to  age  with 
the  years.  "He  is,"  Stephen  Lorimer  said  facetious 
ly,  "only  too  well  preserved !"  His  manner  and  mode 
of  life  remained  the  same,  save  that  he  lost  more 
heavily  at  cards.  For  the  first  time  in  its  history  the 
old  King  place  was  mortgaged.  In  a  day  when  every 
one  who  was  any  one,  as  Honor's  mother  put  it,  was 
getting  a  motor  car,  the  Kings  had  none.  Jimsy,  of 
course,  rode  regally  in  every  one  else's.  The  Lori 
mer  s  had  two,  an  electric  in  which  Honor's  mother 
glided  softly  with  her  little  whirring  bell  from  clubs 
to  luncheons  and  from  luncheons  to  teas,  and  a  rough 
and  ready  seven-passenger  affair  into  which  the  whole 
tribe  might  l>e  piled,  and  which  Honor  Carmody 
drove  better  than  her  stepfather,  who  was  apt  to 
dream  at  f-Ke  wheel.  On  Sundays  Stephen  Lorimer 
took  them  all,  Jimsy,  Honor,  Billy  and  Ted  Car 
mody,  the  Lorimer  twins  and  the  last  little  Lorimer, 
on  motor  picnics  to  the  beach.  They  drove  to  Santa 
Monica,  down  the  Palisades,  up  the  narrow,  winding, 

25 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


wave-washed  road  to  the  Malibou  Ranch  and  built 
a  fire  and  broiled  chops  and  made  coffee  and  baked 
potatoes,  after  their  swim,  ate  like  refugees  and  slept 
like  puppies  on  the  sand.  In  the  afternoon,  when 
they  came  back  to  the  gracious  old  house  in  its  wide 
garden  on  South  Figueroa  Street  Mildred  Lorimer 
would  be  waiting,  in  a  frock  he  loved,  to  give  her 
husband  his  tea,  cool,  lovely,  remote  from  the  rougher 
fun  of  life. 

In  the  evenings — Sunday  evenings — Honor  held 
her  joyous  At  Homes.  Three  or  four  favored  girls 
and  a  dozen  boys  came  to  supper,  a  loud,  hilarious 
meal.  Takasugi,  the  cook,  and  Kada,  the  second 
boy,  were  given  their  freedom.  Honor,  in  the 
quaint  aprons  her  stepfather  had  picked  up  here 
and  there  over  the  world,  pink,  capable,  with  the 
assistance  of  Jimsy  and  her  biggest  brothers,  got 
supper. 

It  was  a  lively  feast.  Jimsy  King,  in  one  of 
Kada's  white  jackets,  waited  on  the  table.  They 
ate  enormously,  and  when  they  had  finished  they 
pronounced  their  ungodly  grace — a  thunderous  tattoo 
on  the  table  edge,  begun  with  palms  and  finished  with 
elbows — 

None-but-the-righteous-shall-be-SAVED! — 
26 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


followed,  while  the  cups  and  plates  were  still  leaping 
and  shuddering,  with  its  secular  second  verse — 

My-sister-Mary-walks-like-Tms ! 

"Well,  Top  Step,"  said  Stephen  one  of  those  eve 
nings,  "eleven  boys  beside  the  stand-by  Jimsy.  Fair 
to  middling  popularity,  I  should  say!" 

"Popularity  ?"  She  opened  her  candid  eyes  wide 
at  him.  "Why,  Stepper,  you  know  it's  not  that! 
They  don't  come  to  see  me!  They  don't  mind  me, 
of  course,  but  it's  the  eats,  and  meeting  each  other, — 
and  mostly  Jimsy,  I  guess !  Mercy, — the  chocolate's 
boiling  over!" 

She  clearly  believed  it,  and  it  was  more  or  less 
true.  The  Carmody  home  of  a  Sunday  night  was  a 
sort  of  glorified  club  house  without  rules  or  dues  or 
by-laws.  It  was  the  thing  to  do,  if  one  were  so  lucky. 
It  rather  placed  a  boy  in  the  scheme  of  things  to 
be  one  of  "the  Sunday-night  bunch."  Jimsy  was 
the  Committee  on  Membership. 

"Let's  have  that  Burke  boy  out  to  supper  Sunday, 
shan't  we?"  Honor  would  say.  "He's  doing  so  well 
on  the  team." 

"No,"  Jimsy  would  answer,  definitely.  "Not  at 
the  house,  Skipper."  Honor  accepted  his  judgments 

27 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


unquestioningly.  Some  way,  with  the  deep  wisdom 
of  boys,  he  knew,  better  than  she  could,  that  the 
young  Burke  person  was  better  on  the  field  than  in 
the  drawing-room.  There  was  nothing  snobbish  in 
their  gatherings;  shabby  boys  came,  girls  who  had 
made  their  own  little  dimity  dresses.  It  was  the  in 
tangible,  inexorable  caste  of  the  best  boyhood,  and 
Honor  knew,  comfortably,  that  her  particular  King 
could  do  no  wrong. 

The  rooting  section  had  a  special  yell  for  Jimsy, 
when  he  had  sped  down  the  field  to  a  touchdown  or 
kicked  a  difficult  goal.  It  followed  the  regular  High 
School  yell,  hair-lifting  in  its  fierceness: 

King !     King !    King ! 
K-I-N-G,  King! 
G-I-N-K,  Gink! 
He's  the  King  Gink! 
He's  the  King  Gink! 
He's  the  King  Gink! 
K-I-N-G,  King!  KING! 

and  Honor  utterly  agreed  with  them. 


CHAPTEKIII 

THE  house  across  the  street  from  the  Cannody 
place  was  suddenly  sold.  People  were 
curious  and  a  little  anxious.  Every  one 
on  that  block  had  been  there  for  a  generation  or  so; 
there  was  a  sense  of  permanence  about  them  all — 
even  the  Kings. 

"Eastern  people,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer.  "A  mother, 
rather  delicate-looking,  and  one  son,  eighteen  or  nine 
teen  I  should  say.  He's  frail-looking,  too,  and  he 
limps  a  little.  I  imagine  they're  very  nice.  Every 
thing  about  them" — her  magazine  reading  had  taken 
her  quite  reasonably  to  a  front  window  the  day  the 
newcomers'  furniture  was  uncrated  and  carried  in — 
"seems  very  nice."  She  hoped,  if  it  developed  that 
they  really  were  desirable  that  they  would  be  per 
manent.  Los  Angeles  was  coming  to  have  such  a 
floating  population.  .  .  . 

Honor  and  Jimsy  observed  the  boy  from  across 
the  street,  a  slim,  modish  person.  "Gee,"  said  Jimsy, 
"it  must  be  fierce  to  be  lame! — to  have  your 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


body  not — not  do  what  you  tell  it  to !  I  wonder  what 
he  does  ?  He  can't  do  anything,  can  he  ?"  His  eyes 
were  deep  with  honest  pity. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  he  sort  of  fills  in  with  other 
things,"  Honor  conceded.  "I  expect,  if  people  can't 
do  the  things  that  count  most,  they  go  in  for  other 
things.  He  seems  awfully  keen  about  his  two  cars." 

"They're  peaches,  both  of  'em,"  said  Jimsy  with 
out  envy. 

"And  of  course  he  has  time  to  be  a  wonder  at 
school,  if  he  wants  to  be." 

"Yep.  Looks  as  if  he  might  be  a  shark  at  it." 
He  grinned.  "Slow  on  his  feet  but  fast  in  the  head." 

"Muzzie's  going  to  call  on  his  mother,  and  then 
we'd  better  ask  him  to  supper,  hadn't  we  ?  He  must 
be  horribly  lonesome." 

"I'll  float  over  and  see  him,"  the  last  King  sug 
gested,  "and  sort  of  size  him  up.  Give  him  the 
once-over.  We  don't  want  to  start  anything  unless 
he's  O.  K.  Might  as  well  go  now,  I  guess." 

"All  right.  Come  in  afterward  and  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  him." 

He  nodded  and  swung  off  across  the  street.  It 
was  an  hour  before  he  came  back,  glowing.  "Gee, 
Skipper,  I'm  strong  for  that  kid!  Name's  Van 
Meter,  Carter  Van  Meter.  He's  got  a  head  on  him, 

30 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


that  boy!  He's  been  everywhere  and  seen  every 
thing — three  times  abroad — Canada,  Mexico!  You 
ought  to  hear  him  talk — not  a  bit  up-stagy,  no  side 
at  all,  but  interesting!  I  asked  him  for  supper, 
Sunday  night.  You'll  be  crazy  about  him — all  the 
bunch  will!"  Thus  Jimsy  King  on  the  day  Carter 
Van  Meter  limped  into  his  life;  thus  Jimsy  King 
through  the  years  which  followed,  worshiping  hum 
bly  the  things  he  did  not  have  in  himself,  belittling 
his  own  gifts,  enlarging  his  own  lacks,  glorifying 
his  friend.  He  had  never  had  a  deeply  intimate  boy 
friend  before;  the  team  was  his  friend,  the  squad; 
Honor  had  sufficed  for  a  nearer  tie.  It  was  to  be 
different,  now ;  a  sharing.  She  was  to  resent  a  little 
in  the  beginning,  before  she,  too,  came  under  the 
spell  of  the  boy  from  the  East. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  came  smiling  back  from  her  call. 
"Very  nice,"  she  told  her  husband  and  her  daughter, 
"really  charming.  And  her  things  are  quite  won 
derful  .  .  .  rare  rugs  .  .  .  portraits  of  ancestors.  A 
widow.  Here  for  her  health,  and  the  boy's  health ; 
he's  never  been  strong.  All  she  has  in  the  world 
.  .  .  wrapped  up  in  him.  Very  Eastern!" — she 
laughed  at  the  memory.  "She  said,  'And  from  what 
part  of  the  East  do  you  come,  Mrs.  Lorimer  ?'  When 
I  said  I  was  born  here  in  Los  Angeles  she  almost 

31 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


gasped,  and  then  she  flushed  and  said,  'Oh,  really? 
Is  it  possible  ?  But  I  met  some  people  on  shipboard, 
once — the  time  before  last  when  I  was  crossing — • 
who  were  natives,  and  they  were  quite  delightful.' ' 

"The  word  'native'  intrigues  them,"  said  Stephen, 
drawing  off  her  long,  limp  suede  gloves  and  smooth 
ing  them.  "I  daresay  she'll  be  looking  for  war 
whoops  and  tomahawks.  And  if  it  comes  to  that,  we 
can  furnish  the  former,  especially  Sunday  night." 

"Muzzie,  did  you  meet  the  boy?"  Honor  wanted 
to  know. 

"Yes.  He  came  in  for  tea  with  us.  A  beautifully 
mannered  boy.  Very  much  at  ease.  We  must  have 
him  here,  Honor." 

"Yes,  Jimsy's  already  asked  him  for  Sunday 
night,  Muzzie.  Jimsy  likes  him." 

"Well,  he  may.  He  has  a  something  ...  I  don't 
know  what  it  is,  exactly,  but  he  will  be  good  for  all 
of  you." 

"We'll  be  good  for  him,  too,"  said  her  daughter, 
calmly.  "It  must  be  fearfully  dull  for  him,  not 
knowing  any  one,  and  being  lame." 

He  came  to  supper,  a  trim  young  glass  of  fashion, 
and  it  was  he,  the  stranger,  who  was  entirely  at  his 
ease,  and  the  "bunch,"  the  gay,  accustomed  bunch, 
which  was  a  little  shy  and  constrained.  Jimsy  stood 

32 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


sponsor  for  him  and  Honor  was  an  earnest  hostess. 
He  said  he  enjoyed  himself;  certainly  he  made 
himself  gently  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Lorimer,  to  the 
girls.  Honor's  stepfather  observed  him  with  his 
undying  curiosity.  He  was  a  plain  boy  with  a  look 
of  past  pain  in  his  colorless  face,  a  shadowed  bitter 
ness  in  his  eyes,  a  droop  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
when  he  was  not  speaking.  Eor  all  his  two  motor 
cars  and  his  rare  old  rugs  and  the  portraits  of  an 
cestors  and  his  idolized  only  sonship,  life  had  clearly 
withheld  from  him  the  things  he  had  wanted  most. 
There  was  a  baffled  imperiousness  about  him,  Ste 
phen  decided. 

"A  clever  youngster,"  he  told  his  wife,  watching 
him  from  across  the  room.  "Brains.  But  I  don't 
like  him." 

"Stephen!     Why  not?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know  yet.  But  I 
know.  I  had  a  curious  sense,  as  he  came  limping 
into  the  room  to-night,  of  'Enter  the  villain/  " 

"My  dear, — that  poor,  frail  boy,  with  his  lovely, 
gentle  manners!" 

"I  know.  It  does  sound  rather  piffle.  Daresay 
I'm  wrong.  The  kids  will  size  him  up." 

When  Carter  Van  Meter  came  to  tell  his  hostess 
good-by,  he  smiled  winningly.  "This  has  been  very 

33 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


jolly,  Mrs.  Lorimer.  It  was  good  of  you  to  let  me 
come.  Mother  asked  me  to  say  how  much  she  ap 
preciated  it.  But" — he  hesitated — "May  I  come  in 
some  afternoon  when — just  you  and  Miss  Honor  are 
here?"  He  looked  wistful,  and  frailer  at  the  end 
of  the  evening  than  he  had  at  the  beginning. 

aOf  course  you  may,  my  dear  boy!"  Mrs.  Lori 
mer  gave  him  the  glory  of  her  special  smile.  "Come 
soon!" 

He  came  the  next  day  but  one,  and  as  her  mother 
was  at  a  bridge  afternoon  it  was  Honor  who  enter 
tained  him.  She  had  just  come  home  from  High 
School  and  she  wore  a  middy  blouse  and  a  short  skirt 
and  looked  less  than  her  years.  "Let's  sit  in  the 
garden,  shan't  we? — I  hate  being  indoors  a  minute 
more  than  I  can  help !"  She  led  the  way  across  the 
green,  springy  lawn  to  the  little  rustic  building  over 
which  the  vivid  Bougainvillaea  climbed  and  swarmed, 
and  he  followed  at  his  halted  pace.  "Besides,  we 
can  see  Jimsy  from  here  when  he  comes  by  from 
football  practice,  and  call  him  in.  I  just  didn't 
happen  to  go  to  watch  practice  to-day,  and  now" — 
she  smiled  at  him,— "I'm  glad  I  didn't."  There 
was  something  intensely  pitiful  about  this  lad  to 
her  mothering  young  heart,  for  all  his  poise  and 
pride. 

34 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


He  waited  gravely  until  she  had  established  her 
self  on  a  bench  before  he  sat.  "Tell  me  about  this 
fellow  King.  Every  one  seems  very  keen  about 
him." 

Honor  leaned  back  and  took  a  serge-clad  knee  be 
tween  two  tanned  hands.  "Well,  I  don't  know  how 
to  begin!  He's — well,  he's  just  Jimsy  King,  that's 
all !  But  it's  more  than  any  other  boy  in  the  world." 

"You're  great  friends,  aren't  you  ?" 

"Jimsy  and  I?  I  should  say  we  are!  We've 
known  each  other  ever  since — well,  before  we  could 
walk  or  talk!  Our  nurses  used  to  take  us  out  to 
gether  in  our  buggies.  We  were  born  next  door — in 
these  two  houses,  on  the  same  day.  Jimsy 's  just 
about  an  hour  older  than  I  am !" 

"I  have  never  had  many  friends,"  said  Carter 
Van  Meter.  "I've  been  moving  about  so  much,  trav 
eling  .  .  .  other  things  have  interfered."  He  never 
referred,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  his  ill  health  or 
his  limp. 

"Well,  you  can  have  all  you  want  now,"  said 
Honor,  generously.  "And  Jimsy  likes  you!"  She 
bestowed  that  like  a  decoration.  "Honestly,  I  never 
knew  him  to  take  such  a  fancy  to  any  one  before  in 
all  his  life.  He  likes  every  one,  you  know, — I  mean, 
he  never  dislikes  anybody,  but  he  never  gets  crushes. 

35 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


So,  it  means  something  to  have  him  keen  about  you. 
If  lie's  for  you,  everybody  will  be  for  you." 

"Why  do  people  like  him  so?" 

"Can't  help  it,"  said  Honor,  briefly.  "Even 
teachers.  He's  not  terribly  clever  at  school,  and  of 
course  he  doesn't  have  as  much  time  to  study  as  some 
do,  but  the  teachers  are  all  keen  about  him.  They 
know  what  he  is.  I  expect  that's  what  counts,  don't 
you?  ^N"ot  what  people  have,  or  do,  or  know;  what 
they  are.  Why,  one  time  I  happened  to  be  in  the 
Vice-Principal's  office  about  something,  and  it  was  a 
noontime,  and  there  was  a  wild  rough-house  down  in 
the  yard.  Honestly,  you  couldn't  hear  yourself 
think!  The  Principal — he  was  a  new  man,  just 
come — kept  looking  out  of  the  window,  and  getting 
more  and  more  nervous,  and  finally  he  said, 
'Shouldn't  we  stop  that,  Mrs.  Dalton?'  And  she 
looked  out  and  laughed  and  said,  'Jimsy  King's  in 
it,  and  he'll  stop  it  before  we  need  to  notice  it!' 
That's  what  teachers  think  of  him,  and  the  boys — 
I  believe  they'd  cut  up  into  inch  pieces  for  him." 

"I  suppose  it's  a  good  deal  on  account  of  his  foot 
ball.  He's  on  the  team,  isn't  he?"  His  eyes  dis 
dained  teams. 

"On  the  team?  He  is  the  team!  Captain  last 
year  and  this, — and  next !  Wait  till  you  see  him  play. 

36 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


He's  the  fastest  full  back  we've  ever  had,  since  any 
body  can  remember.  There'll  be  a  game  Saturday. 
We  play  Kedlands.  Will  you  come,  and  sit  with 
Stepper  and  me  ?" 

"Thanks.  I  don't  care  very  much  for "  he 

stopped,  held  up  by  the  growing  amaze  in  her  face. 
"Yes,  I'd  like  very  much  to  go  with  you  and  Mr. 
Lorimer.  I  don't  care  much  about  watching  games 
where  I  don't  know  the  people" — he  retrieved  and 
amended  his  earlier  sentence — "but  you'll  explain 
everything  to  me." 

She  grinned.  "I'm  afraid  I  won't  be  very  nice 
about  talking  to  you.  I  get  simply  wild,  at  games, 
I'm  right  down  there,  in  it.  I've  never  gotten  over 
not  being  a  boy!  But  Jimsy's  wonderful  about  let 
ting  me  have  as  much  share  in  it  as  I  can.  You'll 
hear  all  sorts  of  tales  about  him,  when  you  come  to 
know  people, — plays  he's  made  and  games  he's  won, 
and  how  he  never,  never  loses  his  head  or  his  temper, 
no  matter  what  the  other  team  does.  If  we  should 
ever  have  another  war,  I  expect  he'd  be  a  great  gen 
eral."  Her  face  broke  into  mirth  again  at  a  mem 
ory.  "Once,  we  were  playing  Pomona — imagine  a 
high  school  playing  a  college  and  beating  them! — 
and  somebody  was  out  for  a  minute,  and  Jimsy  was 
standing  waiting,  with  his  arms  folded  across  his 

37 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


chest,  and  he  had  on  a  head  guard,  and  it  was  very 
still,  and  suddenly  a  girTs  voice  piped  up — fOh, 
doesn't  he  look  just  like  Napoleon?'  He's  never 
heard  the  last  of  it;  it  fusses  him  awfully.  I  never 
knew  anybody  so  modest.  I  suppose  it's  because 
he's  always  been  the  leader,  the  head  of  things,  ever 
since  he  started  kindergarten.  He's  used  to  it;  it 
seems  just  natural  to  him." 

The  new  boy  shifted  his  position  uneasily. 

Honor  thought  perhaps  he  was  suffering;  his  face 
looked  pinched.  "Shall  we  go  in  the  house  ?  Would 
you  be  more  comf" — she  caught  herself  up — 
"perhaps  you're  not  used  to  being  out  of  doors  all 
the  time  ?  Eastern  people  find  this  glaring  sun  tire 
some  sometimes." 

"It's  very  nice  here.  You  go  to  Los  Angeles  High 
School,  too?"  He  didn't  care  about  changing  his 
position  but  he  wanted  intensely  to  change  the  sub 
ject,  even  if  he  had  started  it  by  his  query.  "Odd, 
isn't  it,  that  you  don't  go  to  a  girls'  school  ?" 

Honor  laughed.  "That's  what  Muzzie  thinks. 
She  did  want  me  to  go,  but  I  didn't  want  to,  and 
Stepper — my  stepfather,  you  know, — stood  up  for 
me.  I  never  liked  girls  very  much  when  I  was  little. 
I  do  now,  of  course.  I've  two  or  three  girl  friends 
who  are  wonders.  I  adore  them.  But  I  still  like 

38 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


boys  best.  I  suppose" — lie  saw  that  her  mind 
came  back  like  a  needle  to  the  pole — "it's  on 
account  of  Jimsy.  Wait  till  you  really  know 
him!  You  will  be  just  the  same.  Honestly,  he's 
the  bravest,  gamest  person  in  the  world.  Once, 
a  couple  of  years  ago,  Stepper  noticed  that  he  was 
limping,  and  he  made  him  go  to  see  the  doctor.  The 
doctor  told  us  about  it  afterwards — he's  the  doctor 
who  took  care  of  our  mothers  when  we  were  born. 
Jimsy  came  in  and  said,  'Doc,  I've  got  a  kind  of  a 
sore  leg.'  And  the  doctor  looked  at  it  and  said, 
' You've  got  a  broken  leg,  that's  what  you've  got! 
Go  straight  home  and  I'll  come  out  and  put  it  in  a 
plaster  cast.'  You  see" — she  illustrated  by  putting 
the  tips  of  her  two  forefingers  together — "it  was 
really  broken,  cracked  through,  but  it  hadn't  slipped 
by.  Well,  the  doctor  had  to  stay  and  finish  his  office 
hours,  and  about  an  hour  later  he  looked  up  and  there 
was  Jimsy,  and  he  said,  'Say,  Doc,  would  you  just  as 
soon  set  this  leg  to-morrow  ?  You  see,  I've  got  a  date 
to  take  Skipper — he  always  calls  me  Skipper — to  a 

dance  to-night.    I  won't  dance,  but  I'll  just '  and 

the  doctor  just  roared  at  him  and  told  him  to  go 
home  that  instant,  and  Jimsy  went  out,  but  when  the 
doctor  got  to  his  house  he  wasn't  there,  and  he  had 
to  wait  about  half  an  hour  for  him,  and  he  was 

39 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


furious — he's  got  a  terrible  temper  but  he's  the  dear 
est  old  thing,  really.  Pretty  soon  Jimsy  came  wan 
dering  in  with  his  arms  full  of  books  and  games  and 
puzzles  and  things  he'd  got  to  amuse  himself  while 
he  was  laid  up !  Of  course  the  doctor  expected  him 
to  keep  perfectly  still  in  bed,  but  he  found  he  could 
make  a  sort  of  a  raft  of  two  table  extension  boards 
and  slide  downstairs  to  his  meals.  He  had  an  awful 
time  getting  up  again,  but  he  didn't  care.  The  first 
day  he  was  laid  up  he  had  exactly  nineteen  people 
to  see  him,  and  he  took  the  bandages  off  the  leg  and 
all  the  boys  and  teachers  wrote  their  autographs  and 
sentiments  on  the  cast.  He  called  it  his  Social  Keg- 
ister  and  his  Guest  Book !"  Honor  was  too  happily 
deep  in  her  reminiscences  to  see  that  her  new  friend 
was  a  little  bored. 

He  got  suddenly  to  his  feet.  "Yes.  He  must  be  an 
unusual  fellow.  But  I'd  like  to  hear  you  sing.  Won't 
you  come  into  the  house  and  sing  something  for  me  ?" 

"All  right,"  said  Honor.  "I  love  to  sing,  but  I 
haven't  studied  very  much  yet,  and  I  haven't  any  de 
cent  songs.  Why  doesn't  somebody  write  some? — 
Songs  about  something?  Not  just  maudling  along 
about  'heart'  and  'part'  and  that  kind  of  stuff !  Come 
on!  There's  Stepper  at  the  piano  now.  He'll  play 
for  me." 

40 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


It  was  mellow  in  the  long  living-room  after  the 
brazen  afternoon  sun  outside,  a  livable,  lovable  room. 
Stephen  Lorimer  had  an  open  book  on  the  music 
rack  and  he  was  thumping  some  rather  stirring 
chords. 

"Stepper,"  said  Honor,  "here's  Carter  Van  Meter, 
and  he  wants  me  to  sing  for  him,  and  I  was  just 
saying  how  I  hated  all  these  mushy  old  songs.  Can't 
you  find  me  something  different  ?" 

"I  have,"  said  her  stepfather.  "I've  got  the  words 
here  and  I'm  messing  about  for  some  music  to  go 
with  them." 

Honor  looked  out  as  she  passed  the  window  on 
her  way  to  the  piano.  "Wait  a  minute!  Here's 
Jimsy!  I'll  call  him!"  She  sped  to  the  door  and 
hailed  him,  and  he  came  swiftly  in.  "Hello !  How 
was  practice?" 

"Fair.  Burke  was  better.  Tried  him  on  the 
end.  'Lo,  Mr.  Lorimer.  'Lo,  Carter!" 

"I've  got  a  poem  here  you'll  all  like,"  said  Ste 
phen  Lorimer.  "No,  you  needn't  shuffle  your  feet, 
Jimsy.  It's  your  kind.  Sit  down,  all  of  you.  I'll 
read  it" 

"So  long  as  it  hasn't  got  any  Vhate'ers'  and  'yee- 
tereves'  and  'beauteous,' "  the  last  King  grinned. 
"Shoot!" 

41 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"It's  an  English  thing,  by  Henry  Newbolt, — 
about  cricket,  but  that  doesn't  matter.  It's  the 
thing  itself.  I  may  not  have  the  words  exactly, — I 
read  it  over  there,  and  copied  it  down  in  my  diary, 
from  memory."  He  looked  at  the  boys  and  the  girl ; 
Honor  was  waiting  eagerly,  sure  of  anything  he 
might  bring  her ;  Jimsy  King,  fresh  from  the  sweat 
ing  realities  of  the  gridiron,  was  good-humoredly  tol 
erant;  Carter  Van  Meter  was  courteously  attentive, 
with  his  oddly  mature  air  of  social  poise.  He  began 
to  read,  to  recite,  rather,  his  eyes  on  their  faces: 

There's  a  breathless  hush  in  the  Close  to-night, 

Ten  to  make  and  the  match  to  win ; 

A  bumping  pitch  and  a  blinding  light, 

An  hour  to  play  and  the  last  man  in, 

And  it's  not  for  the  sake  of  a  ribboned  coat 

Or  the  selfish  hope  of  a  season's  fame, 

But  his  Captain's  hand  on  his  shoulder  smote — 

Play  up !    Play  up !  and — Play  the  Game ! 

Jimsy  King,  who  was  lolling  on  the  couch,  sat  up, 
his  eyes  kindling.  "Gee  .  .  ."  he  breathed. 
Honor's  cheeks  were  scarlet  and  she  was  breathing 
hard  and  fast.  Only  the  new  boy  was  unmoved,  his 
pale  face  still  pale,  his  shadowed  eyes  calm.  Stephen 
Lorimer  kept  that*picture  of  them  always  in  his  heart ; 

42 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


it  was,  he  came  to  think,  symbol  and  prophecy.    He 
swung  into  the  second  verse,  his  voice  warming: 

The  sand  of  the  desert  is  sodden  red; 
Red  with  the  wreck  of  a  square  that  broke ; 
The  gatling's  jammed  and  the  colonel  dead, 
And  the  regiment  blind  with  dust  and  smoke: 
The  River  of  Death  has  brimmed  his  banks ; 
And  England's  far,  and  Honor  a  name, 
But  the  voice  of  a  school  boy  rallies  the  ranks — 
Play  up !    Play  up !  and — Play  the  Game ! 

His  own  voice  shook  a  little  on  the  last  line  and 
he  was  a  trifle  amused  at  his  emotionalism.  He  tried 
to  bring  the  moment  sanely  back  to  the  commonplace. 
"Corking  for  a  song,  Top  Step.  I'll  hammer  out 
some  chords  .  .  .  doesn't  need  much."  He  looked 
again  through  the  strangely  charged  atmosphere  of 
the  quiet  room,  at  the  three  big  children.  Jimsy  King 
was  on  his  feet,  shaken  out  of  the  serene  insolence  of 
his  young  stoicism,  his  hands  opening  and  shutting, 
swallowing  hard,  and  Honor,  the  boy-girl,  Jimsy's 
sturdy  Skipper,  was  crying,  frankly,  unashamed,  un 
aware,  the  tears  welling  up  out  of  her  wide  eyes, 
rolling  down  her  bright  cheeks.  Only  Carter  Van 
Meter  sat  as  before,  a  little  withdrawn,  a  little  aloof, 
in  the  shadow. 

43 


CHAPTEE  IV 

WHEN  they  told  Marcia  Van  Meter  (Mrs. 
Horace  Flack)  that  her  little  boy  would 
always  be  lame,  that  not  one  of  the  great 
surgeon-wizards  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic — not 
.all  the  king's  horses  and  all  the  king's  men  could 
•ever  weight  or  wrench  or  force  the  small,  thin  left 
leg  down  to  the  length  of  the  right,  she  vowed  to 
herself  that  she  would  make  it  up  to  him.  She  was 
&  pretty  thing,  transparently  frail  and  ethereal-look 
ing,  who  had  always  projected  herself  passionately 
into  the  lives  of  those  about  her — her  father's  and 
mother's — the  young  husband's  who  had  died  soon 
after  her  son  was  born — and  now  her  boy's.  While 
he  was  less  than  ten  years  old  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  compassed  it;  if  he  could  not  race  and  run  with 
his  contemporaries  he  rode  the  smartest  of  ponies 
and  drove  clever  little  traps ;  if  he  might  not  join  in 
the  rough  sports  out  of  doors  he  had  a  houseful  of 
»brilliant  mechanical  toys;  he  lived  like  a  little 
Prince — like  a  little  American  Prince  with  a  magic 

44 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


bottomless  purse  at  his  command.  But  when  he  left 
his  little  boyhood  behind  she  discovered  her  futility ; 
she  discovered  the  small,  pitiful  purchasing  power 
of  money,  after  all.  She  could  not  buy  him  bodily 
strength  and  beauty;  she  could  not  buy  him  fellow 
ship  in  the  world  of  boys ;  he  was  forever  looking  out 
at  it,  wistfully,  disdainfully,  bitterly,  through  his 
plate  glass  window. 

She  spent  herself  untiringly  for  him, — playmates, 
gifts,  tutors,  journeys.  Her  happiest  moments  were 
those  in  which  he  said,  "Mother,  I'd  like  one  of 
those  wireless  jiggers/' — or  a  new  saddle-horse,  or 
a  new  roadster — and  she  was  able  to  answer,  "Dear 
est,  I'll  get  it  for  you !  Mother'll  get  it  for  you  to 
morrow  !" 

But  the  days  when  she  could  spell  omnipotence  for 
him  were  fading  away.  He  wanted  now,  increasing 
ly,  things  beyond  her  gift.  He  was  a  clever  boy, 
proud,  poised.  He  learned  early  to  wear  a  mask  of 
indifference  about  his  lameness,  to  affect  a  coolness 
for  sports  which  came,  eventually,  to  be  genuine.  He 
studied  easily  and  well;  he  could  talk  with  a  bril 
liancy  beyond  his  years.  He  learned — astonishingly, 
at  his  age — to  get  his  deepest  satisfactions  from  crea 
ture  comforts — his  quietly  elegant  clothes,  his  food, 
his  surroundings.  Mrs.  Van  Meter  had  high  hopes 

45 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


of  the  move  to  Los  Angeles;  lie  was  to  be  benefited, 
body  and  brain.  She  was  a  little  anxious  at  finding 
they  had  moved  into  a  neighborhood  of  boys  and 
girls;  Carter  was  happier  with  older  people,  but  he 
seemed  to  like  these  lively,  robust  creatures  surpris 
ingly.  Weeks,  months,  a  year,  went  by.  Carter, 
less  than  a  year  older  than  Jimsy  King  but  two  years 
ahead  of  him  in  his  studies,  was  doing  some  special 
work  at  the  University  of  Southern  California,  but 
his  time  was  practically  his  own — to  spend  with 
Honor  and  Jimsy.  Honor  and  Jimsy  showed,  each 
of  them,  the  imprint  of  their  association  with  him. 
They  had  come  to  care  more  for  the  things  he  held 
high  .  .  .  books  .  .  .  theaters  .  .  .  dinners  at  the 
Crafts  Alexandria  .  .  .  Grand  Opera  records  on  the 
victrola  .  .  .  more  careful  dress. 

"Carter  has  really  done  a  great  deal  for  those  chil 
dren,"  Mildred  Lorimer  told  her  husband,  com 
placently. 

"Yes,"  Stephen  admitted.  "It's  true.  He  has. 
And" — he  sighed — "they  haven't  done  a  thing  for 
him." 

"Stephen  dear, — what  could  they  do — crude 
children  that  they  are,  beside  a  boy  with  his  advan 
tages?  What  could  they  do  for  him? — Make  him 
play  football?  What  did  you  expect  them  to  do?" 

46 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  moodily,  "but  at  any  rate 
they  haven't  done  it." 

Jimsy  King  was  going — by  the  grace  of  his  own 
frantic  eleventh  hour  efforts  and  his  teachers'  clem 
ency  and  Honor  Carmody — to  graduate.  Barring 
calamities,  he  would  possess  a  diploma  in  February. 
Honor  was  tremendously  earnest  about  it ;  Carter,  to 
whom  learning  came  as  easily  as  the  air  he  breathed, 
faintly  amused.  She  thought,  sometimes,  for  brief, 
traitorous  moments,  that  Carter  wasn't  always  good 
for  Jimsy. 

"You  see,"  she  explained  to  her  stepfather,  "Carter 
doesn't  realize  how  hard  Jimsy  has  to  grind  for  all 
he  gets.  Even  now,  Stepper,  after  being  here  a  year, 
he  actually  doesn't  realize  the  importance  of  Jimsy's 
getting  signed  up  to  play.  It's  a  strange  thing,  with 
all  his  cleverness,  but  he  doesn't,  and  he's  always  tak 
ing  Jimsy  out  on  parties  and  rides  and  things,  and 
he  gets  behind  in  everything.  I  think  I'll  just  have 
to  speak  to  him  about  it." 

He  nodded.  "That's  a  good  idea,  Top  Step.  Do 
that." 

She  grew  still  more  sober.  "Another  thing,  Step 
per  .  .  .  about — about  Mr.  King's — trouble.  Of 
course,  you  and  I  have  never  believed  that  Jimsy 
to  inherit  it,  have  we  ?" 

47 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"No.  'Not  if  people  let  him  alone.  His  life,  his 
training,  his  environment,  are  very  different — more 
wholesome,  vital.  The  energy  which  his  grandfather 
and  his  uncles  and  his  father  had  to  find  a  vent  for 
in  cards  and  drink  Jimsy's  sweated  out  in  athletics." 

"Yes.  But — just  the  same — isn't  it  better  for 
Jimsy  to  keep  away  from — from  those  things?" 

"Naturally.    Better  for  anybody." 

She  sighed.  "Carter  doesn't  think  so.  He  says 
the  world  is  full  of  it — Jimsy  must  learn  to  be  near 
it  and  let  it  alone." 

"That's  true,  in  a  sense,  T.  S.  .  .  ." 

"I  know.  But — sometimes  I  think  Carter  de 
liberately  takes  Jimsy  places  to — test  him.  Of 
.course  he  thinks  he's  doing  right,  but  it  worries  me." 

Stephen  Lorimer  smoked  in  silence.  He  had  his 
own  ideas.  "Better  have  that  talk  with  him,"  he 
said. 

Honor  found  the  talk  oddly  disturbing.  Carter 
was  very  sweet  about  it  as  he  always  was  with  her, 
but  he  held  stubbornly  to  his  own  opinion. 

"Look  here,  Honor,  you  can't  follow  Jimsy  through 
the  world  like  a  nursemaid,  you  know." 

"Carter !     I  don't  mean " 

"He's  got  to  meet  and  face  these  things,  to  fight 
what  somebody  calls  'the  battle  of  his  blood.'  You 

48 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


mustn't  wrap  him  up  in  cotton  wool.  If  he's  going, 
to  be  bowled  over  he  might  as  well  find  it  out.  He 
must  take  his  chances — just  as  any  other  fellow — 
just  as  I  must." 

"Oh,  but,  Carter,  you  know  you're  strong, 
and " 

Suddenly  his  pale  face  was  stung  with  hot  color. 
"Honor,"  he  leaned  forward,  ayou  think  I'm  strong,, 
in  any  way?  You  don't  consider  me  an — utter 
weakling  ?" 

She  looked  with  comprehending  tenderness  at  hia 
crimson  face.  "Why,  Carter,  dear !  You  know  Fve 
never  thought  you  that!  There  are  more  ways  of 
being — being  strong  than — than  just  with  muscles 
and  bones !" 

He  reached  out  and  took  one  of  her  firm,  tanned 
hands  in  his,  and  she  had  never  seen  him  so  winning- 
ly  wistful,  so  wistfully  winning.  "I  thought,"  he 
said,  very  low,  "that  was  the  only  kind  of  strength 
that  counted  with  you.  Then — I  do  count  with  you, 
Honor?  I  do?"  $ 

She  was  a  little  startled,  a  little  frightened,  wholly 
uncomfortable.  There  was  something  in  Carter's 
voice  she  didn't  understand  .  .  .something  she 
didn't  want  to  understand.  She  pulled  her  hand 
away  and  managed  her  boyish  grin.  "Of  course  you 

49 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


do, — goose !  And  you'll  count  more  if  you'll  help  me 
to  look  after  Jimsy  and  have  him  graduate  on  time !" 
She  got  up  quickly  as  her  stepfather  came  into  the 
room,  and  Carter  went  home,  crossing  the  street  with 
the  rather  pathetic  arrogance  of  his  halting  gait,  his 
head  held  high,  tilted  a  little  back,  which  gave  him 
the  expression  of  looking  down  on  a  world  of  swift 
striders. 

He  found  his  mother  reading  before  a  low  fire. 
"Well,  dearest  ?"  She  smiled  up  at  him,  yearningly. 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her,  his  face  working. 
"Mother,  I  want  Honor  Carmody." 

"Carter!" 

"I  want  Honor  Carmody."  He  rode  over  her 
murmured  protests.  "I  know  I'm  only  nineteen.  I 
know  I'm  too  young — she's  too  young.  I'd  expect 
to  wait,  of  course.  But — I  want  her/' 

Marcia  Van  Meter's  heart  cried  out  to  her  to  say 
again  as  she  had  said  all  through  his  little-boy  days, 
"Dearest,  Mother'll  get  her  for  you!  Mother'll  get 
her  for  you  to-morrow!"  But  instead  her  gaze  went 
down  to  the  page  she  had  been  reading  .  .  .  the  last 
scene  in  "Ghosts,"  where  Oswald  Alving  says: 

"Mother,  give  me  the  sun!  The  sun!!  The 
Sun! ! !"  She  shivered  and  shut  the  book  with  em 
phasis  and  threw  it  on  a  near-by  chair.  She  spoke 

50 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


brightly,  reassuringly.  "I'm  sure  she's  devoted  to 
you,  dear.  You  are  the  best  of  friends,  and  that's 
enough  for  the  present,  isn't  it  ?" 


"Dearest,  you've  said  yourself  that  you  realize 
you're  too  young  for  anything  serious,  yet.  Why 
can't  you  wait  contentedly,  until " 

"There's  some  one  else.     There's  Jimsy." 

"Carter,  I'm  sure  they're  like  brother  and  sister. 
They  have  been  playmates  all  their  lives.  That  sort 
of  thing  rarely  merges  into  romance." 

"Doesn't  it?"  His  voice  was  seeking,  hungry. 
"Honestly?" 

"Very  rarely,  dear,  believe  me!"  She  sped  to 
comfort  him.  "Besides,  her  people,  her  mother, 
would  never  want  anything  of  that  sort  .  .  .  the 
taint  in  his  blood  .  .  .  the  reputation  of  his  fam 
ily.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Lorimer  says  they've  always  been 
called  the  'Wild  Kings.'  Of  course  Jimsy  seems 
quite  all  right,  so  far,  and  I  hope  and  pray  he  always 
may  be — he's  a  dear  boy  and  I'm  very  fond  of  him — 
but,  as  he  grows  older  and  is  beset  by  more  tempta 
tions " 

The  boy  relaxed  a  little  from  nis  pale  rigidity  and 
sat  down  opposite  his  mother.  He  held  out  his  hands 
to  the  fire  and  she  saw  that  they  were  trembling. 

51 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"Yes,"  lie  said,  "I've  thought  of  that.  I've  thought 
of  thai.  Perhaps,  when  he  gets  to  college — up  at 
Stanford,  away  from  Honor — I've  thought  of  that!" 
He  bent  his  head,  staring  into  the  fire. 

His  mother  did  not  see  the  expression  on  his  face. 
"Besides,  dear,  Honor's  going  abroad  next  year,  for 
her  voice.  She'll  meet  new  people,  form  new 

"That  doesn't  cheer  me  up  very  much,  Mother." 

"I  mean,"  she  hastened,  "it  will  break  up  the  life 
long  intimacy  with  Jimsy.  And  perhaps  you  and  I 
can  go  over  for  the  summer,  and  take  her  to  Swit 
zerland  with  us.  Wouldn't  that  be  jolly?  You  know, 
dear,"  she  hesitated,  delicately,  "while  we  know  that 
money  isn't  everything,  you  are  going  to  have  far 
more  to  offer  a  girl,  some  day,  than  poor  Jimsy 
King." 

"And  less,"  said  Carter  Van  Meter. 

He  found  Honor  a  little  constrained  at  their  next 
meeting  and  he  hurried  to  put  her  at  her  old  time 
ease  with  him.  He  steered  the  talk  on  to  the  com 
ing  football  game  and  Honor  was  herself.  Los 
Angeles  High  School,  champion  of  Southern  Califor 
nia,  was  to  meet  Greenmount,  the  northern  cham 
pion,  and  nothing  else  in  the  world  mattered  very 
much  to  her  and  to  Jimsy. 

52 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"It's  so  perfect,  Carter,  to  have  it  come  in  Jimsy's 
last  year, — to  win  the  State  Championship  for  L.  A. 
just  before  he  leaves." 

"Sure  of  winning  ?" 

"It  will  be  pretty  stiff  going.  They're  awfully 
good,  Greenmount.  Not  as  good  as  we  are,  on  the 
whole,  but  they've  got  a  punter — Gridley — who's  a 
perfect  wizard!  If  they  can  get  within  a  mile  of 
our  goal,  he  can  put  it  over!  But — we've  got  to 
win.  We've  simply  got  to — and  'You  can't  beat  L. 
A.  High!'" 

She  went  to  watch  football  practice  every  after 
noon  and  Carter  nearly  always  went  with  her.  In 
the  evenings  Jimsy  came  over  for  her  help  with  his 
lessons.  He  had  studied  harder  and  better,  this 
last  year;  his  fine  brain  was  waking,  catching 
up  with  his  body,  but  he  was  busier  than  ever, 
too,  and  his  "Skipper"  had  still  to  be  on  deck. 
He  was  discovered,  that  last  year,  to  have  an  un 
suspected  talent,  Jimsy  King.  He  could  act.  His 
class-play  was  an  ambitious  one,  a  late  New 
York  success,  a  play  of  sport  and  youngness,  and 
Jimsy  played  the  lead.  "No,"  the  pretty  Spanish 
teacher  said,  "he  didn't  play  that  part;  he  was 
it!"  It  was  going  to  be  fine  for  him  at  Stanford, 
Honor's  mothering  thought  raced  ahead.  The  more 

53 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


he  had  to  do,  the  more  things  he  was  interested 
in.  ... 

He  came  in  grinning  a  few  nights  before  the  cham 
pionship  game.  "Say,  Skipper,  what  do  you  think 
they  gave  me  on  that  essay?  A  B.  A  measly  B. 
Made  me  so  sore  I  darn  near  told  'em  who  wrote  it !" 

"Jimsy!  You  wrote  it  yourself,  really.  I  just 
smoothed  it  up  a  little." 

"Yep,  just  a  little!  Well,  either  they're  wise,  or 
they  just  figured  it  couldn't  he  a  top-notcher  if  I'd 
written  it!"  He  cast  himself  on  the  couch.  "Gee, 
Skipper,  I  can't  work  to-night!  I'm  a  dying  man! 
That  dinner  Carter  bought  me  last  night " 

"Jimsy!     You  didn't — break  training?" 

"No.  But  I  skated  pretty  close  to  the  edge.  You 
know,  it's  funny,  but  when  I'm  out  with  Carter  I 
feel  like  such  a  boob,  not  daring  to  eat  this  or  that, 
or  smoke  or — or  anything."  Heresy  this,  from  the 
three  years'  captain  of  L.  A.  High  who  had  never 
considered  any  sacrifice  worth  a  murmur  which  kept 
him  fit  for  the  real  business  of  life.  "Somehow,  he's 
so  keen,  he  makes  me  wish  I  had  more  in  my  head 
and — and  less  in  my  heels !  You  know  what  I  mean, 
Skipper.  He  does  make  me  look  like  a  simp,  doesn't 
he?" 

"No,"  said  Honor,  definitely.  "Why,  Jimsy, 
54 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


you're  a  million  times  bigger  person  than  Carter. 
Everybody  knows  that.  Knowing  things  isn't  every 
thing — knowing  what  to  wear  and  how  to  order  meals 
at  the  Alexandria  and  reading  all  the  new  books  and 
having  been  to  Europe.  Those  things  just  fill  in  for 
him;  they  make  up — a  little — for  the  things  you've 
had." 

"Do  you  mean  that,  Skipper?    Is  that  straight?" 

"Of  course,   Jimsy — cross  my  heart!"     It  was 

curious,  the  way  she  was  having  to  comfort  Jimsy 

for  not  being  Carter,  and  Carter  for  not  being  Jimsy. 


CHAPTEE  V 

IT  rained  the  day  of  the  game.  It  had  been  sulk 
ing  and  threatening  for  twenty-four  hours,  and 
Honor  wakened  to  the  sound  of  a  sluicing  down 
pour.  She  ran  to  her  window,  which  looked  out  on 
the  garden.  The  long  leaves  of  the  banana  tree  were 
flapping  wetly  and  the  Bougainvillaea  on  the  sum- 
merhouse  looked  soaked  and  sodden.  Somewhere  a 
mocking  bird  was  singing  deliriously,  making  his 
tuneful  fun  of  the  weather.  Honor  went  down  to 
breakfast  with  a  sober  face. 

They  had  a  house-guest,  a  friend  of  her  step 
father's,  an  Englishwoman,  a  novelist.  She  was  a 
brisk,  ruddy-skinned  creature,  with  crisp  sentences 
and  sturdy  legs  in  thick  stockings,  and  she  was 
taking  a  keen  interest  in  American  sport.  "Oh,  I 
say,"  she  greeted  Honor,  "isn't  this  bad  for  your 
match?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Bruce-Drummond,  it  is.  We  were 
hoping  for  a  dry  field.  They're  more  used  to  play 
ing  in  the  mud  than  we  are.  But  it'll  be  all  right" 

56 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"I'm  fearfully  keen  about  it. — No,  thank  you — 
my  mother  was  Scotch,  you  see,  and  I  don't  take 
sugar  to  my  porridge.  Salt,  please!"  She  turned 
to  Stephen  Lorimer.  "I've  been  meaning  to  ask 
you  what  you  think  of  Arnold  Bennett  over 
here?" 

Honor's  stepfather  flung  himself  zestfully  into  the 
discussion.  He  liked  clever  women  and  he  knew 
a  lot  of  them,  but  he  had  been  at  some  pains  not  to 
marry  one.  Mildred  Lorimer,  beside  the  shining 
copper  coffee  percolator,  looked  a  lovely  Vesta  of  the 
hearth  and  home. 

Honor  wished  she  might  take  a  pleat  in  the  fore 
noon.  She  didn't  see  how  she  was  going  to  get 
through  the  hours  between  breakfast  and  the  time 
to  start  for  the  game.  It  was  a  relief  to  see  Jimsy 
coming  across  the  lawn  at  ten  o'clock.  She  ran  out 
to  meet  him. 

"Hello,  Jirns^ !" 

"  'Lo,  Skipper.    Isn't  this  weather  the  deuce?" 

"Beastly,  but  it  doesn't  really  matter.  We're 

certain  to "  she  broke  off  and  looked  closely  at 

him.  "Jimsy,  what's  the  matter  ?" 

"Oh  .  .  .  nothing." 

"Yes,  there  is!  Come  on  in  the  house.  There's 
no  one  home.  Stepper's  driving  Miss  Bruce-Drum- 

57 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


mond  and  Muzzle's  being  marcelled."  She  did  not 
speak  again  until  they  were  in  the  living  room. 
"Now,  tell  me." 

"Why — it's  nothing,  really.  Feeling  kind  of  seedy, 
that's  all.  Didn't  have  much  sleep." 

"Jimsy!  You  didn't — you  weren't  out  with 
Carter?" 

"Just  for  a  little  while.  We  went  to  a  Movie. 
Coach  told  us  to — keep  our  minds  off  the  game.  But 
I  was  home  and  in  the  house  at  nine-thirty.  It  was 
— Dad.  He  came  in  about  midnight  I — I  didn't  go 
to  bed  at  all." 

"Oh.  .  .  ."  Her  eyes  yearned  over  him,  over  them 
both.  "Jimsy,  I'm  so  terribly  sorry.  Is  he — how  is 
he  now?" 

"Sleeping.  I  guess  he'll  sleep  all  day.  Gee — I 
wish  I  could!"  His  young  face  looked  gray  and 
strained. 

The  girl  drew  a  long  breath.  "Jimsy,  you've  got 
to  sleep  now.  You've  got  to  put  it — you've  got  to 
put  your  father  away — out  of  your  mind.  You  don't 
belong  to  him  to-day;  you  belong  to  the  team;  you 
belong  to  L.  A.  ...  !NTo  matter  what's  happening 
to  you,  you've  got  to  do  your  best — and — and  be 
your  best" 

"If  I  can,"  he  said,  haggardly. 
58 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"Lie  down  on  the  couch." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  lie  down,  Skipper — I'll 
just " 

"Lie  down  on  the  couch,  Jimsy !"  She  herded  him 
firmly  to  the  couch,  tucked  a  soft,  flat  pillow  under 
his  head,  threw  a  light  afghan  over  him.  Then 
she  opened  a  window  wide  to  the  wet  sweet  air  and 
drew  the  other  shades  down,  and  came  to  sit  on  the 
floor  beside  him,  talking  all  the  time,  softly,  lazily, 
about  the  English  lady  novelist  who  didn't  take  sugar 
"to"  her  porridge  .  .  .  about  the  giddy  mocking  bird, 
singing  in  the  rain  .  .  .  about  a  new  book  which 
Carter  thought  was  wonderful  and  which  she  couldn't 
see  through  at  all  ...  until  his  quick,  burdened 
breathing  yielded  to  a  long  relaxing  sigh  like  that  of 
a  tired  puppy,  and  the  hope  of  L.  A.  High  and  the 
last  of  the  "Wild  Kings"  slept.  She  mounted  rigid 
guard  over  him  for  three  hours,  banishing  the  re 
turned  stepfather  and  house-guest,  keeping  her  noisy 
little  brothers  at  bay.  She  had  ordered  a  strictly 
training-table  luncheon  for  one  o'clock  for  her  charge, 
and  while  the  clock  was  striking  the  hour  Kada 
brought  the  tray.  Jimsy  was  still  sleeping.  Honor 
looked  at  him,  hesitating,  then  she  ran  to  the  piano 
and  struck  her  stepfather's  rousing  chords  and  began 
to  sing : 

59 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


There's  a  breathless  hush  in  the  Close  to-night, 
Ten  to  make  and  the  match  to  win — 

At  the  first  line  he  stirred,  at  the  second  he  rubbed 
his  eyes,  and  at  the  third  he  was  sitting  up  and  lis 
tening.  She  swung  into  the  finish,  and  as  always, 
it  ran  away  with  her.  She  had  never  gotten  over 
the  first  choking  thrill  at  the  words: 

Play  up!    Play  up!  and — Play  the  Game! 

Jimsy  King  came  to  stand  beside  her.  His  hair 
was  mussed  and  his  face  flushed,  and  there  was  a 
sleep-crease  on  one  cheek,  but  his  eyes  were  clear  and 
steady.  "It's  0.  K,  Skipper,"  he  said.  "I  can. 
I'm  going  to.  I  will." 

Carter  Van  Meter  drove  Honor  and  Stephen  Lori- 
mer  and  Miss  Bruce-Drummond  in  his  newest  car 
and  the  four  of  them  sat  together  on  the  edge  of  the 
rooting  section. 

It  was  still  raining  a  little,  tea  singly,  reluctant 
to  leave  off  altogether,  and  the  field  was  a  batter  of 
mud.  The  rooting  section  of  L.  A.  High  was  damp 
but  undaunted.  The  yell  leaders,  vehement,  pierc 
ingly  vocal,  conducted  them  into  thunderous  chal 
lenges: 

60 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


Ali  beebo!    All  by-bo! 
AU  beebo  by-bo  bum! 
Catch  'em  in  a  rat  trap, 
Put  'em  in  a  cat  trap, 
Catch  'em  in  a  cat  trap. 
Put  'em  in  a  rat  trap! 
AU  "beebo!    Ali  by-bo! 
Ali  beebo  by-bo  bum! 

The  bleachers  rocked  and  creaked  and  swayed  with 
the  rhythm  of  it.  "My  word!"  said  Miss  Bruce- 
Drummond.  She  listened  fascinatedly  to  their  deaf 
ening  repertoire.  Greenmount's  supporters,  a  rather 
forlorn  little  group  of  substitutes,  with  the  coach  and 
trainer  and  a  teacher  or  two,  and  a  pert  fox  terriei 
wearing  their  colors  on  his  collar,  elicitated  a  brief, 
passing  pity  from  Honor.  They  looked  strange  and 
friendless,  these  smart  Northern  prep-schoolers.  The 
L.  A.  rooters  conscientiously  gave  their  opponents' 
yell  and  received  a  spatter  of  applause.  The  North 
erners  trotted  out  on  the  field  and  were  hospitably 
cheered. 

"There,    Stepper,"   said  Honor,   tensely,   "that's 
Gridley — the  tallest  one, — see  ?    Last  on  the  right  ?" 
"So,  that's  the  boy  with  the  beamish  boot,  eh  ?" 
"Yes.    He  mustn't  get  a  chance.    He  mustn't" 
Miss  Bruce-Drummond  looked  at  her  friend's  step- 
61 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


daughter.  "You're  frightfully  keen  about  it,  aren't 
you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Honor,  briefly. 

"I  daresay  I  snail  find  it  very  different  from 
Eugby,  but  I  expect  I  shall  be  able  to  follow  it  if 
you'll  explain  a  bit." 

Honor  did  not  answer.  She  was  standing  up, 
yelling  with  all  the  strength  of  her  lusty  young 
lungs,  as  the  Southern  champions  came  out.  Then 
the  rooting  section  made  everything  that  they  had 
said  and  done  before  seem  like  a  lullaby;  it  seemed 
to  the  Englishwoman  she  had  never  known  there 
could  be  such  noise.  Her  head  hummed  with  it : 

King !    King !    King ! 
K-I-N-G,  King! 
G-I-N-K,  Gink! 
He's  the  King  Gink! 
He's  the  King  Gink! 
He's  the  King  Gink! 
K-I-N-G,  King!    KING! 

Honor  sat  down  again,  her  fists  clenched,  her 
lower  lip  between  her  teeth.  If  only  it  were  time  to 
begin  .  .  .  time  for  the  kick-off!  This  was  always 
the  worse  part,  just  before.  ...  It  was  L.  A.'s  kick- 
off.  The  whistle  sounded,  mercifully,  and  with  the 

62 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


solid,  satisfying  impact  of  leather  against  leather  she 
relaxed.  It  was  on.  It  had  started.  All  the  weeks 
of  waiting  for  the  championship  game  were  over. 
This  was  the  game,  and  it  was  just  like  any  other 
game;  Jimsy  was  there — here,  there,  everywhere, 
and  they  would  fight,  fight.  And  you  couldn't  beat 
L.  A.  High.  The  mud  was  horrible.  It  took  grace 
and  fleetness  and  made  a  mock  of  them;  both  teams 
were  playing  raggedly.  Well,  of  course  they  would, 
at  first ;  it  was  so  frightfully  important.  They  would 
shake  down  into  form  in  a  moment. 

"I  don't  believe,"  cut  in  the  fresh,  crisp  voice  of 
Miss  BruceHDrummond,  "that  I  quite  understand 
what  a  'down'  is.  Would  you  mind  explaining  it  to 
me?" 

"Why,"  said  Honor,  without  turning  her  head, 

"they  have  three  downs  in  which  to  make "  she 

was  on  her  feet  again,  screaming,  "Come  on !  Come 
on !  Come — oh " 

Jimsy  King,  with  the  mud-smeared  ball  under 
his  arm,  had  made  fifteen  precious  yards  before  he 
was  tackled.  He  was  up  in  a  flash,  wiping  the  mud 
off  his  face,  grinning.  The  rooters  split  the  soft 
air  asunder. 

Stephen  Lorimer  looked  at  Honor  and  at  Carter 
Van  Meter.  He  always  felt  sorry  for  the  boy  at  a 

63 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


game;  he  looked  paler  and  frailer  than  ever  in  con 
trast  with  the  hearty  young  savages  on  the  field,  and 
he  was  never  able  really  to  give  himself  to  the  agony 
and  wild  joy  of  it. 

Honor  forced  herself  to  sit  still,  her  elbows  on 
her  knees,  her  hot  face  propped  on  her  clenched 
hands.  They  were  playing  better  now,  all  of  them, 
but  it  wasn't  brilliant  football;  it  couldn't  be.  It 
would  be  a  battle  of  dogged  endurance. 

"I  say,  my  dear,  is  that  a  down?"  the  English 
novelist  wanted  to  know. 

"Yes,"  said  Honor,  patiently.  "That's  a  down, 

and  now  there'll  be  another  because  they  have " 

again  she  cut  short  her  explanation  and  caught  hold 
of  her  stepfather's  arm.  "Stepper !  Look !  Gridley 
isn't  playing!" 

He  stared.  "Keally,  Top  Step?  Why,  they 
surely " 

"I  tell  you  he  isn't  playing.  See, — there  he  is,  on 
the  side-lines,  in  the  purple  sweater !" 

"Well,  so  much  the  better  for  L.  A.,"  said  Carter, 
easily. 

Honor  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  understand  it." 
She  began,  oddly,  to  feel  herself  enveloped  in  a  fog 
of  depression,  of  foreboding.  Again  and  again  her 
eyes  left  the  play  to  rest  unhappily  on  the  silent 

64 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


figure  in  the  purple  sweater.  Jimsy  was  playing 
well;  every  man  on  the  team  was  playing  well;  but 
they  were  not  gaining.  Jimsy  King,  on  whose  heels 
were  always  the  wings  of  Mercury,  could  not  get  up 
speed  in  that  mud, — a  brief  flash,  no  more.  She  be 
gan  to  bargain  with  the  gods  of  the  gridiron ;  at  first 
she  had  been  concerned  with  scoring  in  the  first  five 
minutes  of  play;  then  she  had  remodeled  her  peti 
tion  ...  to  score  in  the  first  half.  Now,  her  throat 
dry,  she  was  aching  with  the  fear  of  being  scored 
upon  .  .  .  counting  the  minutes  yet  to  play,  speed 
ing  them  in  her  heart.  It  was  raining  hard  again. 
The  rooting  section,  in  spite  of  the  frantic  effort  of 
the  hoarse  yell  leaders,  was  slowing  down.  What  was 
it? — The  rain?  The  mud?  Was  Jimsy  not  him 
self,  not  the  King  Gink?  Was  his  heart  with  his 
father  in  the  darkened  room  in  the  old  King  house? 

"Of  course,  I'm  not  up  on  this  at  all,  but  I'm 
rather  afraid  your  young  friends  are  getting  the 
worst  of  it,  my  dear!"  said  Miss  Bruce-Drummond, 
cheerily. 

"It's  the  longest  first  half  I  ever  saw  in  my  life," 
said  Honor,  between  clenched  teeth. 

"Ah,  yes, — I  daresay  it  does  seem  so  to  you,  but  I 
expect  they  keep  the  time  very  carefully,  don't  you  ?" 
She  looked  the  girl  over  interestedly.  "The  psychol- 

65 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


ogy  of  this  sort  of  thing  is  ver-r-ry  entertaining," 
she  said  to  Stephen  Lorimer. 

"Less  than  five  minutes,  T.  S.,"  said  her  step 
father,  comfortingly. 

"You  know,  I'm  afraid  you'll  think  me  fearfully 
dull,"  said  the  Englishwoman,  conversationally, 
"hut  I'm  still  not  quite  clear  about  a  'down.'  Would 
you  mind  telling  me  the  next  time  they  do  one? — 
Just  when  it  begins,  and  when  it  ends  ?" 

"One's  ended  now,"  said  Honor,  bitterly,  "and 
we've  lost  the  ball, — on  our  twenty  yard  line.  We've 
lost  the  ball." 

"Ah,  well,  my  dear,  I  daresay  you'll  soon  get  it 
back!" 

Honor  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  cry  which  made 
people  turn  and  look  at  her.  "Look  there!  Look! 
See  what  they're  doing?"  One  of  the  Greenmount 
players  had  been  called  out  by  the  coach  and  had 
splashed  his  way  to  the  side-lines,  to  be  patted  wetly 
on  the  back  and  wrapped  in  a  damp  blanket.  That 
was  well  enough.  That  was  the  usual  thing.  But 
the  unusual,  the  astounding  thing  was  that  two  of  the 
Greenmount  team  had  slopped  to  the  side-lines  and 
picked  up  Gridley,  divested  now  of  his  purple  sweat 
er,  bodily,  in  their  arms,  and  carried  him,  dry-shod, 
over  the  slithering  mud.  Honor  gave  a  gasping  moan. 

66 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"I  knew.  .  .  ."  There  was  a  dead,  sick  silence  on 
the  bleachers.  The  rain  sluiced  down.  Somewhere 
in  a  near-by  garden  another  giddy  mocking  bird  sang 
deliriously  in  the  stillness.  Tenderly  as  two  nurses 
with  a  sick  man,  the  bearers  set  Gridley  down. 
Slowly,  solemnly,  he  stepped  off  the  distance  to  the 
quarter  back;  briskly,  but  with  dreadful  thorough 
ness,  the  men  who  had  carried  him  wiped  the  mud 
from  his  feet  with  a  towel  and  took  their  places  to 
defend  him  from  the  wild-eyed  L.  A.  men,  poised, 
breathless,  menacing.  There  was  a  muttering  roar 
from  the  bleachers,  hoarsely  pleading,  command 
ing—  "Block-that-kick !  Block-fhat-lcick !  BLOCK- 
THAT-KICK  !"  The  kneeling  quarter  back  opened  his 
muddy  hands;  the  muddied  oval  came  sailing  lazily 
into  them.  .  .  .  There  was  the  gentle  thud  of  Grid- 
ley's  toe  against  the  leather,  and  then — unbelievably, 
unbearably,  it  was  an  accomplished  fact,  a  finished 
thing.  Gridley  had  executed  his  place  kick.  They 
were  scored  on.  It  stood  there  on  the  board,  glaring 
white  letters  and  figures  on  black : 

GKEESTMOUNT  4  L.  A.  HIGH  0 

At  first  Honor's  own  woe  engulfed  her  utterly. 
For  the  first  instant  she  wasn't  even  aware  of  Jimsy 

67 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


King,  standing  alone,  his  arms  folded  across  his 
chest,  staring  down  the  field ;  of  his  men,  wiping  the 
mud  out  of  their  eyes  and  looking  at  him,  looking 
to  him;  of  the  stunned  rooters.  But  at  the  second 
breath  she  was  awake,  alive  again,  tense,  tingling, 
bursting  with  her  message  for  them  all,  keeping  her 
self  by  main  force  in  her  place.  Jimsy  King  never 
saw  any  one  in  a  game;  he  never  knew  any  one  in  a 
game ;  people  ceased  to  exist  for  him  while  he  was  on 
the  field.  But  to-day,  in  this  difficult  hour,  she  was 
to  see  him  turn  and  face  the  bleachers  and  rake  them 
with  his  aghast  and  startled  eyes  until  he  found  her. 
She  was  on  her  feet,  in  her  white  jersey  suit  and 
her  blue  hat  and  scarf — L.  A.'s  colors — waving  to 
him,  looking  down  at  him  with  all  her  gallant  soul 
in  her  eyes.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  must  be  say 
ing  it  aloud ;  as  if  she  must  be  singing  it : 

Play  up!    Play  up!  and — Play  the  Game! 

Then  the  bleachers  and  the  players  saw  the  Cap 
tain  of  the  L.  A.  team  turn  and  wade  briskly  down 
the  field  to  Gridley.  They  saw  him  hold  out  his 
muddy  hand;  they  heard  his  clear,  "Peach  of  a 
kick!"  They  saw  him  give  the  Northerner's  hand 
a  hearty  shake ;  they  saw  him  fling  up  his  head,  and 

68 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


grin,  and  face  the  grandstand  for  a  second,  his  eyes 
seeking.  .  .  .  They  saw  him  rally  his  men  with  a 
snapped-out  order, — and  then  they  were  on  their  feet, 
shouting,  screaming,  stamping,  cheering: 

KING!    KING!    KING! 

The  yell  leaders  couldn't  get  hold  of  them;  there 
was  no  need.  Every  man  was  his  own  yell  leader. 
They  yelled  for  Gridley  and  for  Greenmount  (why 
worry,  when  Jimsy  clearly  wasn't  worried?)  and  for 
their  own  team,  man  by  man,  and  the  call  of  time 
for  the  first  half  failed  to  make  the  faintest  dent  in 
their  enthusiasm. 

"But" — said,  Miss  Bruce-Drummond,  her  mouth 
close  to  Honor's  ear — "you  haven't  won,  have  you  ?" 

"Not  yet!"  Honor  shouted.  "Wait!"  She  be 
gan  to  sing  with  the  rest: 

You  can't  beat  L.  A.  High! 
You  can't  beat  L.  A.  High! 
Use  your  team  to  get  up  steam, 
But  you  can't  beat  L.  A.  High! 

It  was  gay,  mocking,  scatheless,  inexorable.  You 
couldn't  beat  L.  A.  High.  Honor  swayed  and  swung 
to  it.  Use  your  team  and  your  tricks  and  your  dry- 


\ 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


shod  men  to  kick,  but  you  couldn't  beat  L.  A.  High. 
And  it  appeared,  in  fact,  that  you  couldn't,  for  Jimsy 
King's  team  went  into  the  second  half  like  happy 
young  tigers,  against  men  who  were  a  little  tired,  a 
little  overconfident,  and  in  the  first  ten  minutes  of 
play  the  King  Gink,  mud-smeared  beyond  recogni 
tion,  grinning,  went  over  the  line  for  a  touchdown, 
and  nobody  minded  much  Burke's  missing  the  goal 
because  they  had  won  anyway: 

GEEENMOUlSrT  4  L.  A.  HIGH  5 

and  the  championship,  the  state  championship,  stayed 
south,  and  it  suddenly  stopped  raining  and  the  sun 
came  out  gloriously  after  the  reckless  manner  of 
Southern  California  suns,  and  everything  was  for 
the  best  in  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds. 

Honor,  star-eyed,  more  utterly  and  completely  hap 
py  and  content  than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  life, 
turned  penitently  to  Miss  Bruce-Drummond.  "When 
we  get  home,"  she  said,  "I'll  explain  to  you  exactly 
what  a  'down'  is!" 

They  waited  to  see  the  joyous  serpentine,  to  watch 
Jimsy's  struggles  to  get  down  from  the  shoulders  of 
his  adorers  who  bore  him  the  length  of  the  field  and 
back,  and  then  Carter  drove  them  home  and  went  back 

70 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


for  the  Captain,  who  would  he  showered  and  dressed 
by  that  time.  They  were  both  dining  with  Honor, 
but  Jimsy  looked  in  on  his  father  first. 

"Gusty  says  he's  slept  all  day,"  he  reported  to 
Honor.  He  kept  looking  at  her,  with  an  odd  in 
tensity,  all  through  the  lively  meal.  She  had 
changed  her  wet  white  jersey  for  one  of  her  long- 
lined,  cleverly  simple  frocks  of  L.  A.  blue,  and  her 
honey-colored  braids  were  like  a  crown  above  her 
serene  forehead. 

"You  know,  Stephen,"  said  Miss  Bruce-Drum- 
mond  while  they  were  having  their  coffee  in  the 
living  room,  "of  course  you  know  that  both  those 
lads  are  in  love  with  your  nice  girl." 

"Do  you  see  it,  too?" 

She  laughed.  "I  may  not  know  what  a  'down' 
is,  but  I've  still  reasonably  sharp  eyes  in  my  head. 
And  the  odd  thing  is  that  she  doesn't  know  it." 

"Isn't  it  amazing?  I'm  watching,  and  wonder- 
ing." 

"It's  a  pretty  time  o'  life,  Stephen,"  said  one  of 
the  clever  women  he  hadn't  wanted  to  marry. 

"  'Youth's  sweet-scented  manuscript,'  Ethel,"  said 
Honor's  stepfather. 

"Jimsy,  will  you  come  here  a  minute?"  Honor 
called  from  the  dining-room  door. 

VI 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


"Yes,  Skipper!"     He  was  there  at  a  bound. 

"Don't  you  think  your  father  would  like  this  water- 
ice  ?  I  think  he  could — I  believe  he  might  enjoy  it." 

He  took  the  little  covered  tray  out  of  her  hands. 
"I'll  bet  he  will,  Skipper.  You're  a  brick.  Come 
on  over  with  me,  will  you — and  wait  on  the  porch  ?" 

She  looked  back  into  the  roomful.  "Had  I  bet 
ter?  I  don't  suppose  they'll  miss  me  for  a  min- 

But  Carter  Van  Meter  was  coming  toward  them, 
threading  his  way  among  people  and  furniture  with 
his  slight,  halting  limp.  He  looked  from  one  to  the 
other,  questioningly. 

"Taking  this  over  to  my  Dad,"  Jimsy  explained. 
"Back  in  a  shake." 

"I  see.  How  about  a  ride  to  the  beach  ?  Supper 
at  the  ship-hotel ?  Celebrate  a  little?" 

"Deuce  of  a  lot  of  work  for  Monday,"  Jimsy 
frowned.  "Haven't  studied  a  lick  this  week." 

Carter  laughed.  "Oh,  Monday's — Monday !  Come 
along!  We  can't" — he  turned  to  Honor — "be  by 
ourselves  to-night,  with  the  celeb,  here.  Honor 
has  to  stay  and  play-pretty  with  her." 

'Well  ...  if  we  don't  make  it  too  late " 

Jimsy  turned  and  sped  away  with  Honor's  offering 
for  James  King. 

72 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


Honor  looked  at  Carter.  His  eyes  were  very 
bright ;  he  looked  more  excited,  now,  some  way,  than 
he  had  at  the  game.  Poor  old  Carter.  He  wanted, 
she  supposed,  to  do  something  for  Jimsy  ...  to 
give  him  a  wonderful  party  ...  to  spend  money 
on  him  ...  to  excel  and  to  shine  in  his  way.  But 
— the  ship-hotel — and  his  father  over  there  all  day  in 
the  darkened  room —  For  the  first  time  in  her  hon 
est  life  she  stooped  to  guile.  "I'll  he  down  in  a  min 
ute,  Carter,"  she  said  and  ran  upstairs,  through 
the  hall,  down  the  backstairs,  cut  through  the  kitchen 
and  across  the  wet  and  springy  lawn  to  the  King 
place. 

She  waited  in  the  shadow  of  the  house  until  he 
came  out. 

"Jimsy!" 

"Skipper!" 

"I  slipped  out — sh  .  .  .  Jimsy,  I — please  don't  go 
with  Carter  to-night!  I  don't  mean  to  interfere  or 
— or  nag,  Jimsy, — you  know  that,  don't  you  ?"  She 
slipped  a  little  on  the  wet  grass  in  her  thin  slip 
pers,  and  laid  hold  of  his  arm  to  steady  herself. 
"But — it  worries  me.  You're  the  finest,  the  most 
wonderful  person  in  the  world,  and  I  trust  you  more 
than  I  trust  myself,  but — I  know  how  boys  are  about 
— things — and — "  she  turned  her  face  to  the  dark 

73 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


house  where  so  many  "Wild  Kings"  had  lived  and 
moved  and  had  their  unhappy  heing — "I  couldn't 
bear  it  if " 

It  began  to  rain  again,  softly,  and  they  moved 
unconsciously  toward  the  shelter  of  the  porch. 

"You  were  so  splendid  to-day!  I  haven't  had  a 
chance  to  tell  you  .  .  .  shaking  hands  with  him,  be 
ing  so » 

"You  made  me,"  said  Jimsy  King.  Then,  at  her 
murmured  protest.  "You  did.  You  made  me,  just 
as  you've  made  me  do  every  decent  thing  I've  ever 
done.  I'm  just  beginning  to  see  it.  I  guess  I'm  the 
blindest  bat  that  ever  lived.  Of  course  I  won't  go 
with  Cart'  to-night.  I  won't  do  anything  you 
don't " 

Honor  had  mounted  two  steps,  to  be  under  the 
roof  of  the  porch,  and  now,  turning  sharply  in  her 
gladness,  the  wet  slipper  slipped  again,  and  she 
would  have  fallen  if  he  had  not  caught  her. 

"Skipper!" 

"It's — it's  all  right!"  said  Honor  in  a  breathless 
whisper.  "I'm  all  right,  Jimsy.  Let  me " 

But  Jimsy  King  would  not  let  her  go.  He  held 
her  fast  with  all  his  football  strength  and  all  his 
eighteen  years  of  living  and  loving,  and  he  said 
over  and  over  in  the  new,  strange  voice  she  had 

74: 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


never  heard  before,  "Skipper!  Skipper!  Skipper!" 
"Jimsy  .  .  .  what — what    is    happening    to    us? 
Jimsy,  dear,  we  never  before — Jimsy,  are  we — are 
we — Is  this  being — in  love?" 

And  the  mocking-bird  of  the  morning,  mounted  on 
the  wet  Bougainvillaea  on  the  summerhouse  in  Hon 
or's  garden,  explained  to  them  in  a  mad,  exultant, 
thrilling  burst  of  song. 


CHAPTEK  VI 

AT  least,"  Mildred  Lorimer  wept,  "at  least, 
Stephen,  make  them  keep  it  a  secret !    Make 
them  promise  not  to  tell  a  living  soul — and 
not  to  act  in  such  a  way  as  to  let  people  suspect !    I 
think" — she  lifted  tragic,  reproachful  eyes  to  him — 
"you  ought  to  do  what  you  can,  now,  considering 
that  it's  all  your  fault." 

"Some  day,"  said  her  husband,  sturdily,  "it  will 
be  all  my  cleverness  ...  all  my  glory.  I  did  hon 
estly  believe  it  was  a  cradle  chumship  which  wouldn't 
last,  Mildred.  I  thought  it  would  break  of  its  own 
length.  But  I'm  glad  it  hasn't." 

"Stephen,  how  can  you  ?  One  of  the  Wild  Kings' 
— I  cannot  bear  it.  I  simply  cannot  bear  it."  She 
clutched  at  her  hope.  "She  must  go  abroad  even 
sooner  than  we  planned — and  stay  abroad.  Stephen, 
you  will  make  them  keep  it  a  secret  from  every 
one?" 

"They've  already  told  Carter.  Told  him  just 
after  they'd  told  me." 

76 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"Oh,  poor,  poor  Carter!"  There  was  a  note  of 
fresh  woe  in  her  voice. 

He  turned  sharply  to  look  at  her.  "So,  that's 
where  the  pointed  patent  leather  pinches,  Mildred  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"YouVe  been  hoping  it  would  be  Carter  ?" 

"Dearest,  I've  looked  upon  them  all  as  children. 
...  It  was  the  merest  .  .  .  idea  .  .  .  thought. 
Mrs.  Van  Meter  is  devoted  to  Honor,  Carter  is  an 
unusual  boy,  and  they're  exceptional  people.  And 
he — of  course,  I  mean  in  his  boyish  way — adores 
Honor.  This  will  be  a  cruel  blow  for  him."  She 
grieved.  "Poor,  frail  boy.  .  .  ." 

Stephen  Lorimer  smoked  in  silence  for  a  moment. 
"I  fancy  Carter  will  not  give  up  hope.  There's  noth 
ing  frail  about  his  disposition.  His  will  doesn't 
limp." 

"Well,  I  certainly  hope  he  doesn't  consider  it  final. 
I  don't.  I  consider  it  a  silly  boy-and-girl  piece  of 
sentimental  nonsense,  and  I  shall  do  everything  in 
my  power  to  break  it  up.  I  consider  that  my  child's 
happiness  is  at  stake." 

"Yes,"  said  her  husband,  "so  do  I."  He  got  up 
and  went  round  to  his  wife's  chair  and  put  penitent 
arms  about  her  and  comforted  her.  After  all,  he 
could  afford  to  be  magnanimous.  He  was  going  to 

77 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


win  his  point  in  the  end,  and  meanwhile  it  would  be 
an  excellent  thing  for  the  youngsters  to  have  Mildred 
doing  everything  in  her  pretty  power  to  break  it 
up.  She  might  just  as  well,  he  believed,  try  to  put 
out  the  hearth  fire  with  the  bellows. 

With  her  daughter  she  became  motherly  and  ad 
monitory  in  her  official  third  person.  "Mother  wants 
only  your  happiness;  you  know  that,  dear." 

"Well,  then,  there's  nothing  to  worry  about,"  said 
Honor,  comfortably,  "for  you  want  me  to  be  happy 
and  I  can't  be  happy  unless  it's  with  Jimsy,  so  you'll 
have  to  want  me  to  have  Jimsy,  Muzzie !" 

"Mother  wants  real  happiness  for  you,  Honor, 
genuine,  lasting  happiness.  That's  why  she  wants 
you  to  be  sure.  And  you  cannot  possibly  be  sure  at 
your  age." 

"Yes,  I  can,  Muzzie,"  said  Honor,  patiently. 
"Surer  than  sure.  Why, — haven't  I  always  had 
Jimsy, — ever  since  I  can  remember?  Before  I  can 
remember  ?  He's  part  of  everything  that's  ever  hap 
pened  to  me.  I  can't  imagine  what  things  would  be 
like  without  him.  I  wont  imagine  it!"  Her  eyes 
darkened  and  her  mouth  grew  taut. 

"But  you'll  promise  Mother  to  keep  it  a  secret? 
You'll  promise  me  faithfully?" 

"Of  course,  Muzzie,  if  you  want  me  to,  but  I  can't 
78 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


see  what  difference  it  makes.  I'll  never  be  any 
surer  than  I  am  now, — and  I  can't  ever  know  Jimsy 
any  better  than  I  do  now.  Why" — she  laughed — 
"it  isn't  as  if  I  had  fallen  in  love  at  eighteen,  with  a 
new  person,  some  one  I'd  just  met,  or  some  one  I'd 
known  only  a  little  while,  like  Carter !  If  I  felt  like 
this  about  Carter  I'd  think  it  was  reasonable  to  'wait' 
and  be  'sure.' '  She  was  aware  of  a  new  expression 
on  her  mother's  lovely  face  and  interpreted  it  in  her 
own  fashion.  "I'm  sorry  if  you  don't  like  our  telling 
Carter,  Muzzie.  We  did  it  before  you  asked  us  not 
to,  you  know.  He's  always  with  us  and  I'm  sure  he'd 
have  found  out,  anyway."  She  smiled.  "Carter's 
funny  about  it.  He  acts — amused — as  if  he  were 
years  and  years  older,  and  we  were  babies  playing  in 
a  sand  box  or  making  mud  pies."  It  was  clear  that 
his  amusement  amused  her,  just  as  her  mother's 
admonition  amused  her:  nothing  annoyed  or  dis 
turbed  her, — her  serenity  was  too  deep  for  that.  Her 
fine  placidity  was  lighted  now  with  an  inner  flame, 
but  she  was  very  quiet  about  her  happiness ;  she  was 
not  very  articulate  in  her  joy. 

"Mother  cannot  let  you  go  about  unchaperoned 
with  Jimsy,  Honor.  People  would  very  soon  sus 
pect " 

"I  don't  think  they  would,  Muzzie,"  said  Honor, 
79 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


calmly.  "None  of  the  other  mothers  are  so  particu 
lar,  you  know.  Most  of  the  girls  go  on  walks  and 
rides  alone.  But  we  won't,  if  you'd  rather  not. 
Stepper  will  go  with  us,  or  Billy,  or  Ted." 

Mrs.  Lorimer  sighed.  She  could  envisage  just  how 
much  efficient,  deterrent  chaperonage  her  husband 
would  supply. 

She  watched  them  set  off  for  the  Malibou  Ranch 
the  next  Sunday  morning  rather  complacently,  how 
ever.  She  had  seen  to  it  that  Carter  was  of  the  party, 
To  be  sure,  he  was  in  the  tonneau  with  Stephen 
Lorimer  and  the  young  Carmodys  and  Lorimers 
and  the  heroic-sized  lunch  box  and  the  thermos 
case,  while  Jimsy  and  Honor  sat  in  front,  but  at 
least  he  was  there.  There  would  be  no  ignoring 
Carter,  as  they  might  well  ignore  her  husband  and 
sons. 

Carter,  talking  easily  and  intelligently  to  his  host 
about  the  growing  problem  of  Mexico,  quietly 
watched  the  two  in  front.  They  were  not  talking 
very  much.  Jimsy  was  driving  and  he  kept  his  eyes 
on  the  road  for  the  most  part,  and  Honor  sat  very 
straight,  her  hands  in  her  lap.  Only  once  Carter 
saw,  from  the  line  of  his  arm,  that  Jimsy  had  put 
his  left  hand  over  hers,  and  when  it  happened  he 
stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  his  neat  sentence 

80 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


and  an  instant  later  he  said,  coloring  faintly, — 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Lorimer, — you  were  say- 
ing?" 

Stephen  Lorimer  felt  an  intense  pity  for  him  but 
he  did  not  see  any  present  or  future  help  for  his 
misery.  Therefore,  when  they  had  finished  their 
gypsy  luncheon  and  the  younger  boys  were  settling 
it  by  a  wild  rough-house  before  their  swim  and  Jimsy 
rose  and  said,  "Want  to  walk  up  the  coast,  Skipper  ?" 
and  Honor  said,  "Yes, — just  as  soon  as  I've  put  these 
things  away/7  he  went  deliberately  sand  seated  him 
self  beside  Carter  and  began  to  read  aloud  to  him 
from  the  Sunday  paper. 

He  looked  up  from  the  sheet  to  watch  the  boy's 
face  as  the  others  set  off.  Carter  pulled  himself  to 
his  feet.  He  ran  his  tongue  over  his  lips  in  rare 
embarrassment.  "I — don't  you  feel  like  a  stroll, 
too,  Mr.  Lorimer?  After  that  enormous  lunch, 
I " 

Honor's  stepfather  grinned.  "Well,  I  don't  feel 
like  a  stroll  in  that  direction,  Carter.  Let  'em  alone, 
• — shan't  we?"  He  included  him  in  the  attitude  of 
affectionate  indulgence.  "I've  been  there  myself, 
and  you  will  be  there — if  you  haven't  been  already." 
He  patted  the  sand  beside  him.  "Sit  down,  old  man. 
This  editorial  sounds  promising." 

81 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


But  Carter  would  not  be  denied.  "Mr.  Lorimer, 
you  don't  consider  it — serious,  do  you  ?" 

"About  the  most  serious  matter  in  the  world,  I 
should  say,  Carter." 

The  boy  refused  the  generalization.  "I  mean,  be 
tween  Honor  and  Jimsy  ?"  He  was  visibly  expecting 
a  negative  answer.  "I  know  that  Mrs.  Lorimer 
doesn't." 

"Well,  I  disagree  with  her.  I  should  say,  with 
average  youngsters  of  their  age  that  it  was  as 
transient  as — as  the  measles.  But  they  aren't  aver 
age,  Carter." 

"I  know  that.    At  least,  Honor  isn't." 

"Nor  Jimsy.  I  sometimes  think,  Carter,  that  fel 
lows  of  our  type,  yours  and  mine,"  he  was  not  looking 
at  him  now,  he  was  running  his  long  fingers  lazily 
through  the  hot  and  shining  sand,  "are  apt  to  be  a 
little  contemptuous  in  our  minds  of  his  sort.  Being 
rather  long  on  brain,  we  fancy,  we  allow  ourselves  a 
scorn  of  the  more  or  less  unadorned  brawn.  And  yet, 
— they're  the  salt  of  the  earth,  Carter;  they're  the 
cities  set  on  hills.  They  do  the  world's  red-blooded 
vital  jobs  while  we — think.  And  Honor's  not  clever 
either;  you  know  that,  Carter.  All  the  sense  and 
balance  and  character  in  the  world,  Top  Step,  God 
love  her,  but  not  a  flash  of  brilliancy.  They're  capi- 

82 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


tally  suited.  Sane,  sound,  sweet;  gloriously  fit  and 
healthy  young  animals — "  this  was  calculated 
cruelty;  Carter  might  as  well  face  things;  there 
would  be  a  girl,  waiting  now  somewhere,  no  doubt, 
who  wouldn't  mind  his  limp,  but  Honor  must  have  a 
mate  of  her  own  vigorous  breed, — Honor  who  had 
always  and  would  always  "run  with  the  boys," — 
"who  will  produce  their  own  sort  again." 

The  boy's  mouth  was  twisted.  "And — and  how 
about  his  blood — his  heredity?  Isn't  he  one  of  the 
'Wild  Kings'  1" 

"You  know,"  Stephen  lighted  a  cigarette,  "I  don't 
believe  he  is !  He's  got  their  looks  and  their  charm, 
but  I'm  convinced  he's  two-thirds  Scotch  mother, — 
that  sturdy  soul  who  would  have  saved  his  father  if 
death  hadn't  tricked  her.  And  I'm  rather  a  radical 
about  heredity,  anyway,  Carter.  It's  gruesomely 
overrated,  I  think.  What  is  it? — Clammy  hands 
reaching  out  from  the  grave  to  clutch  at  warm  young 
flesh — and  pollute  it?  Not  while  there  are  living 
hands  to  beat  them  off !"  He  began  to  get  vehement 
and  warm.  There  was  to  be  a  chapter  on  heredity 
in  that  book  of  his,  one  day.  "It's  a  bogy.  It  goes 
down  before  environment  as  the  dark  before  the 
dawn.  Why,  environment's  a  vital,  flesh  and  blood 
thing,  fighting;  with  and  for  us  every  instant!  I 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


could  take  the  offspring  of  Philip  the  Second  and 
Great  Catherine  and  make  a — a  Frances  Willard  or 
a  Jane  Addams  of  her, — if  people  didn't  sit  about 
like  crows,  cawing  about  her  parents  and  her  blood 
and  her  heritage.  Even  dry,  statistical  scientists  are 
beginning " 

And  while  like  the  Ancient  Mariner  he  held  Carter 
Van  Meter  on  the  sunny  sand  Honor  and  Jimsy 
walked  sedately  up  the  shore.  They  were  a  little  ill 
at  ease,  both  of  them.  It  was  the  first  time  since — 
as  Honor  put  it  to  herself — "it  had  happened"  that 
they  had  been  quite  alone  with  each  other  in  the 
hard,  bright  daylight.  There  had  been  delectable 
moments  on  the  stairs,  on  the  porch,  stolen  seconds 
in  the  summerhouse,  but  here  they  were  on  a  blazing 
Sunday  afternoon  under  a  turquoise  sky,  with  a  salt 
and  hearty  wind  stinging  their  faces,  all  by  them 
selves.  They  would  not  be  quite  out  of  sight  of  the 
rest,  though,  until  they  rounded  the  next  turn  in  the 
curving  road.  Jimsy  looked  back  over  his  shoulder, 
obviously  taking  note  of  the  fact.  He  knew  that 
Honor  knew  it,  too,  and  the  sight  of  her  hot  cheeks, 
her  resolute  avoidance  of  his  eyes  put  him  suddenly 
at  ease. 

"I  guess,"  he  said,  casually,  "this  is  kind  of  like 
Italy.  Fair  enough,  isn't  it  ?" 

84 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"Heavenly,"  said  Honor,  a  little  breathlessly. 
"Italy !  Just  think,  Jimsy, — next  year  at  this  time 
Tube  in  Italy!" 

"Gee,"  he  said,  solemn  and  aghast,  "gee!"  They 
had  passed  the  turn  and  instantly  he  had  her  in  a 
tense,  vise-like  hug.  "No,  you  won't.  No,  you  won't. 
I  wont  let  you.  I  won't  let  you  go  'way  off  there, 
alone,  without  me.  I  won't  let  you,  Skipper,  do  you 
hear?"  Suddenly  he  stopped  talking  and  began  to 
kiss  her.  Presently  he  laughed.  "I've  always  known 
I  was  a  poor  nut,  Skipper,  but  to  think  it  took  me 
eighteen  years  to  discover  what  it  would  be  like  to 
kiss  you !"  He  took  up  his  task  again. 

"Oh,"  said  Honor,  gasping,  pushing  him  away 
with  her  hands  against  his  chest — "you  wouldn't 
have  had  time!" 

"I  could  have  dropped  Spanish  or  Math',"  he 
grinned.  "Come  on, — let's  go  further  up  the  coast. 
Some  of  those  kids  will  be  tagging  after  us,  or 
Carter." 

"Not  Carter.  Stepper's  reading  to  him.  He  won't 
let  him  come." 

"One  peach  of  a  scout,  Stephen  Lorimer  is,"  said 
the  boy,  warmly.  "Best  scout  in  the  world." 

"He's  the  best  friend  we've  got  in  the  world, 
Jimsy,"  she  said  gravely. 

85 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"I  know  it.  Your  mother's  pretty  much  peeved 
about  it,  Skipper.7' 

"Yes,  she  is,  just  now.  Poor  Muzzie !  I'm  afraid 
I've  never  pleased  her  very  much.  But  she  gets  over 
things.  She'll  get  over  it  when — when  she  finds 
that  we  don't  get  over  it!"  She  held  out  her  hand 
to  him  and  he  took  it  in  a  hard  grip,  and  they  swung 
along  at  a  fine  stride,  up  the  twisting  shore  road. 
They  came  at  last  to  the  great  gate  which  led  into 
the  Malihou  Ranch  and  they  halted  there  and  went 
down  into  a  little  pocket  of  rocks  and  sand  and  sun 
and  sat  down  with  their  faces  to  the  shining  sea. 

He  kissed  her  again.  "No;  you  can't  go  to  Italy, 
Skipper.  That's  settled." 

"Then — what  are  we  going  to  do,  Jimsy  dear  2" 

"Why,  we'll  just  get — "  his  bright  face  clouded 
over.  "Good  Lord,  I'm  talking  like  a  nit-wit.  We've 
got  to  wait,  that's  all.  What  could  I  do  now  ?  Run 
up  alleys  with  groceries  ?  Take  care  of  gardens  ?" 

"Not  my  garden !  You  don't  know  a  tulip  from  a 
cauliflower !" 

"No,  I'll  have  to  learn  to  do  something  with  my 
head  and  my  hands, — not  just  my  legs !  I  guess  life 
isn't  all  football,  Skipper." 

"But  I  guess  it's  all  a  sort  of  game,  Jimsy,  and 
we  have  to  'play'  it!  And  it  wouldn't  be  playing 

86 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


the  game  for  our  people  or  for  ourselves  to  do  some 
thing  silly  and  reckless.  This  thing — caring  for  each 
other — is  the  wisest,  biggest  thing  in  our  lives,  and 
we've  got  to  keep  it  that,  haven't  we  ?" 

He  nodded  solemnly.  "That's  right,  Skipper.  We 
have.  I  guess  we'll  just  have  to  grit  our  teeth  and 
wait — gee — three  years,  anyway,  till  I'm  twenty- 
one  !  That's  the  deuce  of  a  long  time,  isn't  it  ?  Lord, 
why  wasn't  I  horn  five  years  hefore  you?  Then  it 
would  he  O.  K.  Loads  of  girls  are  married  at 
eighteen." 

"You  weren't  horn  five  years  before  me  because 
then  it  would  have  spoiled  everything,"  said  Honor, 
securely  confident  of  the  eternal  rightness  of  the 
scheme  of  things.  "You  would  have  been  marching 
around  in  overalls  when  I  was  born,  and  when  I  was 
ten  you  would  have  been  fifteen,  and  you  wouldn't 
have  looked  at  me, — and  now  you'd  be  through  col 
lege  and  engaged  to  some  wonderful  Stanford  girl! 
!NTo,  it's  perfectly  all  right  as  it  is,  Jimsy.  Only, 
we've  just  got  to  be  sensibla" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  one  thing  right  now,  Skipper, 
I'm  not  going  to  wait  five  or  six  years.  I'm  going 
to  go  two  years  to  college,  enough  to  bat  a  little  more 
knowledge  into  my  poor  bean,  and  then  I'm  coming 
out  and  get  a  job, — and  get  you !"  He  illustrated  the 

87 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


final  achievement  by  catching  her  in  his  arms  again. 

When  she  could  get  her  hreath  Honor  said,  "But 
we  needn't  worry  ahout  all  of  it  now,  dear.  We 
haven't  got  to  wait  the  four — or  six  years — all  at 
once !  Just  a  month,  a  week,  a  day  at  a  time.  And 
the  time  will  fly, — you'll  see!  You'll  have  to  work 
like  a  demon " 

"And  you  won't  be  there  to  help  me!" 

"And  there'll  be  football  all  fall  and  baseball  all 
spring,  and  theatricals,  and  we'll  write  to  each  other 
every  day,  won't  we  ?" 

"Of  course.  But  I  write  such  bone-headed  boob 
letters,  Skipper." 

"I  won't  care  what  they're  like,  Jimsy,  so  long  as 
you  tell  me  things." 

"Gee  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  be  lost  up  there  without 
you,  Skipper." 

"You'll  have  Carter,  dear." 

"I  know.  That'll  help  a  lot.  Honestly,  I  don't 
know  how  a  fellow  with  a  head  like  his  puts  up  with 
me.  He  forgets  more  every  night  when  he  goes  to 
sleep  than  I'll  ever  know.  He's  a  wonder.  Yes,  it 
sure — will  help  a  lot  to  have  Carter.  But  it  won't 
be  you," 

"Jimsy,  have  you  told — your  father  ?" 

He  nodded.  "Last  night  He  was — he'a  been 
88 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


feeling  great  these  last  few  days.  He  was  sitting  at 
his  desk,  looking  over  some  old  letters  and  papers, 
and  I  went  in  and — and  told  him." 

"What  did  he  flay?" 

"He  didn't  say  anything  at  first.  He  just  sat  still 
for  a  long  time,  staring  at  the  things  he'd  been  read 
ing.  And  then  he  got  out  a  little  old  leather  hox  that 
he  said  was  my  mother's  and  unlocked  it  and  took  out 
a  ring."  Jimsy  thrust  a  hand  deep  into  a  trouser 
pocket  and  brought  out  a  twist  of  tissue  paper,  yel 
lowed  and  broken  with  age.  He  unwrapped  it  and 
laid  a  slender  gold  ring  on  Honor's  palm. 

"Jimsy!"  It  was  an  exquisite  bit  of  workman 
ship,  cunningly  carved  and  chased,  with  a  look  of 
mellow  age.  There  were  two  clasped  hands, — not  the 
meaningless  models  for  wedding  cakes,  slim,  taper 
ing,  faultless,  but  two  cleverly  vital  looking  hands,  a 
man's  and  a  woman's,  the  one  rugged  and  strong,  the 
other  slender  and  firm,  and  the  wrists,  masculine  and 
feminine,  merging  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  circle 
into  one.  "Oh  .  .  ."  Honor  breathed,  "it's  wonder 
ful.  .  .  ." 

"Yes.  It's  a  very  old  Italian  ring.  It  was  my 
great-grandmother's,  first.  It  always  goes  to  the 
wife  of  the  eldest  son.  My  Dad  says  it's  supposed  to 
mean  love  and  marriage  and — and  everything — 'the 

89 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


endless  circle  of  creation/  he  said,  when  I  asked  him 
what  it  meant,  hut  first  he  just  said,  'Give  this  to 
your  girl  and  tell  her  to  hold  hard.  Tell  her  we're  a 
bad  lot,  hut  no  King  woman  ever  let  go.7  " 

Suddenly  and  without  warning,  as  on  the  day  when 
Stephen  Lorimer  had  first  read  the  Newbolt  poem  to 
them,  Honor  hegan  to  cry. 

"Skipper!  Skipper,  dearest — "  she  was  in  the 
young  iron  clasp  of  his  arms  and  his  cheek  was 
pressed  down  on  her  hair.  "What  is  it?  Skipper, 
tell  me!" 

"Oh,"  she  sohhed,  clinging  to  him,  "I  can't  hear 
it,  Jimsy!  All  the  years — all  those  splendid  men, 
all  those  faithful  women,  'holding  hard'  against — 
against " 

He  gathered  her  closer.  "My  Dad's  the  last  of 
'em,  Skipper.  He's  the  last  'Wild  King.'  It  stops 
with  him.  I  told  him  that,  and  he  believes  me.  Do 
you  believe  me,  Skipper  ?" 

She  stopped  sobbing  and  looked  up  at  him  for  a 
long  moment,  her  wet  eyes  solemn,  her  breath  com 
ing  in  little  gasps.  Then — "I  do  believe  you, 
Jimsy,"  she  said.  "Til  never  stop  believing  you" 

He  kissed  her  gravely.  "And  now  I'll  show  you 
the  secret  of  the  ring."  He  took  it  from  her  and 
pressed  a  hidden  spring.  The  clasped  hands  slowly 

90 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


parted,  revealing  a  small  intensely  blue  sapphire. 
"That's  for  'constancy,'  my  Dad  says."  He  put  it 
on  her  finger.  "It  just  fits !" 

"Yes.  And  it  just  fits — us,  too,  Jimsy.  The 
jewel  hidden  .  .  .  the  way  we  must  keep  our  secret. 
Muzzie  won't  let  me  wear  it  here,  but  I'll  wear  it 
the  minute  I  leave  here, — and  every  minute  of  my 
life.  It  was  wonderful  for  your  father  to  let  us  have 
it — when  we're*  so  young  and  have  so  long  to  wait !" 

"He  said — you  know,  he  was  different  from  any 
thing  he's  ever  been  before,  Skipper,  more — more  like 
his  old  self,  I  guess — he  said  it  would  help  us  to 
wait." 

"It  will,"  said  Honor,  contentedly,  tucking  her 
hand  into  his  again.  They  sat  silently  then,  looking 
out  at  the  bright  sea. 


CHAPTER  VII 

HONOR  was  surprised  and  pleased  to  find 
how  little  she  minded  living  abroad,  after 
all.  They  had  arrived,  the  boy  and  herself, 
in  the  months  between  their  secret  understanding  and 
their  separation,  at  the  amazed  conclusion  that  it  was 
going  to  be  easier  to  be  apart  until  that  bright  day 
when  they  might  be  entirely  and  forever  together. 
At  the  best,  three  interminable  years  stretched  bleak 
ly  between  them  and  marriage ;  they  had  to  mark  time 
as  best  they  could.  She  liked  Florence,  she  liked  the 
mountainous  Signorina,  her  stepfather's  friend,  and 
she  liked  her  work.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Jimsy 
King  she  would  without  doubt  have  loved  it,  but  there 
was  room  in  her  simple  and  single-track  con 
sciousness  for  only  one  engrossing  and  absorbing 
affection.  She  wrote  to  him  every  day,  bits  of  her 
daily  living,  and  mailed  a  fat  letter  every  week,  and 
every  week  or  oftener  came  his  happy  scrawl  from 
Stanford.  Things  went  with  him  there  as  they  had 
gone  at  L.  A.  High, — something  less,  naturally,  of 

92 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


hero  worship  and  sovereignty,  but  a  steadily  rising 
tide  of  triumph.  He  chronicled  these  happenings 
briefly  and  without  emphasis.  "Skipper  dear,"  he 
would  write  in  his  crude  and  hybrid  hand,  "I've 
made  the  Freshman  team  all  right  and  it's  a  pretty 
fair  to  middling  bunch  and  I  guess  we'll  stack  up 
pretty  well  against  the  Berkeley  babes  from  what  I 
hear,  and  they  made  me  captain.  It  seems  kind  of 
natural,  and  I  have  three  fellows  from  the  L.  A. 
team, — Burke  and  Estrada  and  Finley." 

He  was  madly  rushed  by  the  best  fraternities  and 
chose  naturally  the  same  one  as  Carter  Van  Meter, 
— one  of  the  best  and  oldest  and  most  powerful.  He 
made  the  baseball  team  in  the  spring,  and  the  second 
fall  the  San  Francisco  papers'  sporting  pages  ran  his 
picture  often  and  hailed  him  as  the  Cardinal's  big 
man.  Honor  read  hungrily  every  scrap  of  print 
which  came  to  her, — her  stepfather  taking  care  that 
every  mention  of  Jimsy  King  reached  her.  It  was  in 
his  Sophomore  year  that  he  played  the  lead  in  the 
college  play  and  Honor  read  the  newspapers  limp 
and  limber — "James  King  in  the  lead  did  a  remark 
able  piece  of  work."  "King,  Stanford's  football  star, 
surprised  his  large  following  by  his  really  brilliant 
performance."  "Well-known  college  athlete  demon 
strates  his  ability  to  act."  Honor  knew  the  play  and 

93 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


she  could  shut  her  eyes  and  see  him  and  hear  him  in 
the  hero's  part,  and  her  love  and  pride  warmed  her 
like  a  fire. 

She  had  not  gone  home  that  first  summer.  Mil 
dred  Lorimer  and  Carter's  mother  managed  that,  be 
tween  them,  in  spite  of  Stephen's  best  efforts,  and, 
that  decided,  Jimsy  King  went  with  his  father  to 
visit  one  of  the  uncles  at  his  great  hacienda  in  old 
Mexico.  Mrs.  Van  Meter  and  her  son  spent  his  vaca 
tion  on  the  Continent  and  had  Honor  with  them  the 
greater  part  of  the  time.  She  met  their  steamer  at 
Naples  and  Carter  could  see  the  shining  gladness  of 
her  face  long  before  he  could  reach  her  and  speak  to 
her,  and  he  glowed  so  that  his  mother's  eyes  were 
wet. 

"Honor !"  He  had  no  words  for  that  first  moment, 
the  fluent  Carter.  He  could  only  hold  both  her  hands 
and  look  at  her. 

But  Honor  had  words.  She  gave  back  the  grip  of 
his  hands  and  beamed  on  him.  "Carter!  Carter, 
dear!  Oh,  but  it's  wonderful  to  see  you !  It's  next 
best  to  having  Jimsy  himself !" 

Marcia  Van  Meter  winced  with  sympathy,  but  her 
son  managed  himself  very  commendably.  They  went 
to  Sorrento  first,  and  stayed  a  week  in  a  mellow  old 
hotel  above  the  pink  cliffs,  and  the  boy  and  girl  sat 

94 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


in  the  garden  which  looked  like  a  Maxfield  Parrish 
drawing  and  drove  up  to  the  old  monastery  at  Deserto 
and  wandered  through  the  silk  and  coral  shops  and 
took  the  little  steamer  across  to  Capri  for  the  day 
while  Mrs.  Van  Meter  rested  from  the  crossing.  She 
was  happier  that  summer  than  she  had  been  since 
Carter's  little-boy  days,  for  she  was  giving  him,  in  so 
far  as  she  might,  what  he  wanted  most  in  all  the 
world,  and  she  saw  his  courage  and  confidence  grow 
ing  daily.  She  was  a  little  nervous  about  Roman 
fever,  so  they  left  Italy  for  Paris,  and  then  went  on 
to  Switzerland,  and  for  the  first  few  days  she  was 
supremely  content  with  her  choice, — Carter  gained 
color  and  vigor  in  the  sun  and  snow,  and  Honor 
glowed  and  bloomed,  but  she  presently  saw  her  mis 
take.  Switzerland  was  not  the  place  to  throw  Honor 
and  Carter  together, — Switzerland  filled  to  overflow 
ing  with  knickerbockered,  hard  muscled,  mountain 
climbing  men  and  women;  Honor  who  should  have 
been  climbing  with  the  best  of  them ;  who  would  be, 
if  Jimsy  King  were  with  them ;  and  her  son,  in  the 
smart  incongruities  of  his  sport  clothes  .  .  .  limp 
ing,  his  proud  young  head  held  high. 

They  found  Miss  Bruce-Drummond  at  Zermatt, 
brown  as  a  berry  and  hard  as  nails  with  her  season's 
work,  and  she  was  heartily  glad  to  see  Honor. 

95 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


"Well,  my  dear, — fancy  finding  you  here!  Your 
stepfather  wrote  me  you  were  studying  in  Florence 
and  I've  been  meaning  to  write  you.  What  luck, 
your  turning  up  now !  The  friend  who  came  on  with 
me  has  been  called  home,  and  you  shall  do  some 
climbs  with  me!" 

"Shall  I  ?"  Honor  wanted  to  know  of  her  hostess, 
but  it  was  Carter  who  answered. 

"Of  course !  Don't  bother  about  us, — we'll  amuse 
ourselves  well  enough  while  you're  hiking, — won't 
we,  Mater?"  He  was  charming  about  it  and  yet 
Honor  felt  his  keen  displeasure. 

"Yes,  do  go,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Meter,  quickly. 
"Make  the  most  of  it,  for  I  think  we'll  be  moving  on 
in  a  very  few  days.  I — I  haven't  said  anything  about 
it  because  you  and  Carter  have  been  so  happy  here, 
but  the  altitude  troubles  me.  .  .  .  I've  been  really 
very  wretched." 

"Oh,"  said  Honor  penitently,  "we'll  go  down  right 
away,  Mrs.  Van  Meter, — to-day!  Why  didn't  you 
tell  us?" 

"It  hasn't  been  serious,"  said  Carter's  mother,  con 
scientiously,  "it's  just  that  I  know  I  will  be  more 
comfortable  at  sea  level."  It  was  entirely  true ;  she 
would  be  more  comfortable  at  sea  level  or  anywhere 
«lse,  so  long  as  she  took  Carter  out  of  that  picture  and 

96 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


framed  him  suitably  again.  "But  we  needn't  hurry 
so  madly,  dear.  Suppose  we  go  on  Friday?  That 
will  give  you  a  day  with  your  friend."  She  sent 
Carter  for  her  cloak  and  Honor  and  the  English 
woman  strolled  to  the  end  of  the  veranda. 

"I  don't  believe  we  ought  to  wait  even  a  day,  if 
she  feels  the  altitude  so,"  said  Honor,  troubled. 
"She's  really  very  frail." 

"I  expect  she  can  stick  it  a  day,"  said  Miss  Bruce- 
Drummond,  calmly.  "She  looks  fit  enough.  But — I 
say — where' s  the  other  one  ?  Where's  your  boy  ?" 

The  warm  and  happy  color  flooded  the  girl's  face. 
"Jimsy  is  in  Mexico  with  his  father,  visiting  their 
relatives  there  on  a  big  ranch." 

"You  haven't  thrown  him  over,  have  you?" 

"Thrown  Jimsy  over?  Thrown — "  she  stopped 
and  drew  a  long  breath.  "I  could  just  as  easily  throw 
myself  over.  Why,  we — belong!  We're  part  of  each 
other.  I  just — can't  think  of  myself  without  think 
ing  of  Jimsy — or  of  Jimsy  without  thinking  of  me." 
She  said  it  quite  simply  and  steadily  and  smiled 
when  she  finished. 

"I  see,"  said  the  novelist.  "Yes.  I  see.  But 
you're  both  frightfully  young,  aren't  you  ?  I  expect 
your  people  will  make  you  wait  a  long  time,  won't 
they?" 

97 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"Well,"  said  Honor,  earnestly,  "we're  going  to  try 
our  very  best  to  wait  three  years, — three  from  the 
time  when  we  found  out  we  were  in  love  with  each 
other,  you  know, — two  years  longer  now.  Then  we'll 
be  twenty-one."  She  spoke  as  if  every  one  should 
be  satisfied  then,  if  they  dragged  out  separate  ex 
istences  until  they  had  attained  that  hoary  age,  and 
Miss  Bruce-Drummond,  hard  on  forty-one,  grinned 
with  entire  good  nature. 

"And  I  daresay  they'll  keep  you  over  here  all  the 
while, — not  let  you  go  home  for  holidays,  for  fear 
you  might  lose  your  heads  and  bolt  for  Gretna 
Green?" 

"Mercy,  no!"  Her  eyes  widened,  startled.  "I 
shall  go  home  for  all  summer  next  year !  I  meant  to 
go  this  year,  but  Muzzie  thought  I  ought  to  stay,  to 
be  with  Carter  and  Mrs.  Van  Meter,  when  they'd 
made  such  lovely  plans  for  me, — and  it  was  really 
all  right,  this  time,  because  Jimsy  ought  to  be  with 
his  father  on  the  Mexican  trip."  Her  smooth  brow 
registered  a  fleeting  worry  over  James  King  the 
elder.  "But  next  summer  it'll  be  home,  and  Catalina 
Island,  and  Jimsy !" 

But  it  wasn't  home  for  her  next  summer,  after  all. 
Mildred  Lorimer  decided  that  she  wanted  three 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


months  on  the  Continent  with  her  husband  and  her 
daughter. 

"Eight,"  said  Stephen  Lorimer,  amiably,  "so  long 
as  we  take  the  boy  along." 

"You  mean  Kodney?"  she  wanted  to  know,  not 
looking  at  him.  (Kodney  was  the  youngest  Lori 
mer.) 

"I  mean  Jimsy  King,  naturally,  as  you  quite  well 
know,  Sapphira,"  he  answered,  pulling  her  down  be 
side  him  on  the  couch  and  making  her  face  him. 

"Stephen,  I  don't  think  Mr.  King  can  afford  to 
send  him." 

"Then  we'll  take  him." 

"Jimsy  wouldn't  let  us.  He  is  very  proud, — I 
admire  it  in  him." 

"Do  you,  my  dear?  Then,  can't  you  manage  to 
admire  some  of  his  other  nice  young  virtues  and 
graces  ?" 

"I  do,  Stephen.  I  give  the  boy  credit  for  all  he 
is,  but " 

"But  you  don't  intend  to  let  him  marry  your 
daughter  if  by  the  hookiest  hook  and  crookedest  crook 
you  can  prevent  it.  I  observed  your  Star  Chamber 
sessions  with  Mrs.  Van  Meter  last  year;  I  saw  you 
wave  her  and  her  son  hopefully  away;  I  observed, 
smiling  with  intense  internal  glee,  that  you  welcomed 

99 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


them  back  with  deep  if  skillfully  dissembled  disap 
pointment.  Top  Step,  God  love  her,  sat  tight.  Don't 
you  know  your  own  child  yet,  Mildred  ?  Don't  you 
know  the  well  and  favorably  known  chemical  action 
of  absence  on  young  and  juicy  hearts?  Don't  you 
know" — he  broke  off  to  stare  at  her,  flushed  and  a 
little  breathless  as  she  always  was  in  discussions  and 
unbelievably  youthful  and  beautiful  still,  and 
finished  in  quite  another  key — "that  you're  getting 
positively  lovelier  with  each  ridiculous  birthday — 
and  your  aged  and  infirm  spouse  more  and  more  be- 
sottedly  in  love  with  you  ?" 

She  did  not  melt  because  she  was  tremendously 
in  earnest.  She  was  pledged  in  her  deepest  heart  to 
break  up  what  she  felt  was  Honor's  silly  sentimen 
tality — sentimentality  with  a  dark  and  sinister  back 
ground  of  mortgages  and  young  widows  and  Wild 
Kings  and  shabby,  down-at-the-heel  houses  and  lawns. 

"Woman,"  said  Stephen  Lorimer,  "did  you  hear 
what  I  said  ?  It  was  a  rather  neat  speech,  I  thought 
However,  as  you  did  not  give  it  the  rapt  attention, 
it  merited  I  will  now  repeat  it,  with  appropriate  ges 
tures."  He  caught  her  in  his  arms  as  youthfully  aa 
Jimsy  might  have  done  with  Honor,  and  told  her 
again,  between  kisses.  "You  lovely,  silly,  stubborn 
thing,  kiss  your  wise  husband  once  more  in  a  manner 

100 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


expressive  of  your  admiration  for  his  unfailing 
sapience,  and  lie  will  then,  with  surprising  agility  for 
one  of  his  years,  lope  across  the  intervening  lawn 
and  tell  James  King  that  his  son  goes  to  Europe  with 
us  in  June."  He  grinned  back  at  her 'from  the  door. 
"You'll  do  your  little  worst  to  prevent'  it,  my  dear, 
that  I  know,  but  Jimsy  King  goss  with  us!" •,  r  •  /  ' V 

Honor  and  Jimsy  wrote  each  other  rapturously  on 
receipt  of  the  news,  but  they  were  not  fluent  or  ex 
pressive,  either  of  them,  and  they  could  only  under 
line  and  put  in  a  reckless  number  of  exclamation 
points,  "Gee,"  wrote  Jimsy  King,  "isn't  it  im 
mense?  Skipper,  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  feel — but, 
by  golly,  I  can  show  you  when  I  get  there !" 

And  Honor,  reading  that  line,  grew  rosily  pink 
to  the  roots  of  her  honey-colored  hair  and  flung  her 
self  into  an  hour  of  practice  with  such  fire  and  fervor 
that  the  Signorina,  came  and  beamed  in  the  doorway. 

"So,"  she  nodded.    "News?    Good  or  bad?" 

"Good,"  said  Honor,  swinging  round  on  the  piano 
stool.  "The  best  in  the  world !" 

"So  ?  Well,  it  does  not  greatly  matter  which,  my 
small  one.  It  does  not  signify  so  much  whether  one 
feels  joy  or  grief,  so  long  as  one  feels.  To  feel  .  .  . 
that  is  to  live,  and  to  live  is  to  sing!" 

Honor  sprang  up  and  ran  to  her  and  put  her  arm 
101 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


as  far  around  her  as  it  would  go.  She  was  a  de 
licious  person  to  hug,  the  Signorina,  warm  and  soft 
and  smelling  faintly  of  rare  and  costly  scents. 

"So  ?"  said  the  great  singer  again.  "It  is  of  some 
comfort,,  ihteli*  ;ti>  embrace  so  much  of  fatness,  when 
your  arms  ache  to  feel  muscles  and  hard  flesh? 
3?herer  .the^.'ittiy  gcod  small  one,"  she  patted  her 
with  a  puffy  and  jeweled  hand,  "I  jest,  but  I  rejoice. 
It  is  all  good  for  the  voice,  this." 

" Signorina,"  said  Honor,  honestly,  "I've  told  you 
and  told  you,  but  you  don't  seem  to  believe  me,  that 
I'm  only  studying  to  fill  up  the  time  until  they'll  let 
me  marry  Jimsy.  I  love  it,  of  course,  and  I'll  always 
keep  it  up,  as  much  as  I  can  without  neglecting  more 
important  things,  but " 

"Mother  of  our  Lord,"  said  the  Italian,  lifting  her 
hands  to  heaven,  "  'more  important  things'  says  this 
babe  with  the  voice  of  gold,  who,  by  the  grace  of  God 
and  my  training  might  one  day  wake  the  world !" 

"More  important  to  me/'  said  Honor,  firmly.  "I 
know  it  must  seem  silly  to  you,  Signorina,  dear,  but 
if  you  were  in  love " 

"Mothers  of  all  the  holy  saints,"  said  the  fat 
woman,  lifting  her  hands  again,  "when  have  I  not 
been  in  love?  Have  I  not  had  three  husbands  al 
ready,  and  another  even  now  dawning  on  the 

102 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


horizon,  not  to  mention — but  there,  that  is  not  for 
pink  young  ears.  I  will  say  this  to  you,  small  one. 
Every  woman  should  marry.  Every  artist  must 
marry.  Run  home,  then,  in  another  year,  and  wed 
the  young  savage,  and  have  done  with  it.  Stay  a 
year  with  him — two  if  you  like — until  there  is  an 
infant  savage.  Then  you  shall  come  back  and  give 
yourself  in  earnest  to  the  business  of  singing." 

But  Honor,  scarlet-cheeked,  shook  her  head.  "I 
can't  imagine  coming  back  from — from  that,  Sig- 
norina,!"  Her  eyes  envisaged  it  and  the  happy  color 
rose  and  rose  in  her  face.  "But  I've  got  a  good 
lesson  for  you  to-day !  Shall  I  begin  ?" 

"Begin,  then,  my  good  small  one,"  said  her  teacher 
indulgently,  "and  for  the  rest,  we  shall  see  what  we , 
shall  see!" 

Honor  flung  herself  into  her  work  as  never  before, 
and  counted  the  weeks  and  days  and  hours  until  the 
time  when  Jimsy  should  come  to  her,  and  Jimsy, 
finishing  up  a  sound,  triumphant  Sophomore  year, 
saw  everything  through  a  hazy  front  drop  of  his 
Skipper  on  the  pier  at  Naples. 

But  Jimsy  King  did  not  go  abroad  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Lorimer,  after  all,  and  Honor  did  not  see  him 
through  the  whole  dragging  summer.  Stephen  Lori 
mer,  sick  with  disappointment  for  his  stepdaughter, 

103 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


would  have  found  relief  in  fixing  the  blame  on  his 
wife,  for  her  lovely  and  complacent  face  mirrored 
her  satisfaction  at  the  turn  of  events,  but  he  could 
hardly  hold  her  responsible.  James  King  was  taken 
suddenly,  alarmingly  ill  with  pneumonia  two  days 
before  they  left  Los  Angeles  to  catch  their  steamer  at 
New  York,  and  it  was  manifestly  impossible  for  his 
son  to  leave  him.  The  doctors  gave  scant  hope  of 
his  recovery. 

Therefore,  it  was  Carter  Van  Meter  who  took 
Jimsy's  ticket  off  his  hands  and  Jimsy's  place  in  the 
party  and  the  summer  plans,  leaving  his  happy 
mother  to  spend  three  flutteringly  hopeful  months 
alone. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

JAMES  KING,  greatly  to  the  surprise  of  his 
physicians,  did  not  die,  but  he  hovered  on  the 
brink  of  it  for  many  thin  weeks  and  his  son 
gave  up  his  entire  vacation  to  be  with  him.  The 
letters  he  sent  Honor  were  brief  bulletins  of  his 
father's  condition,  explosive  regrets  at  having  to  give 
up  his  summer  with  her,  but  Jimsy  was  not  a  letter 
writer.  In  order  properly  to  fill  up  more  than  a 
page  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  be  able  to  say,  "Had 
a  bully  practice  to-day,"  or,  "Saw  old  Duffy  last 
night  and  he  told  me  all  about — "  He  was  not  good 
at  producing  epistolary  bulk  out  of  empty  and  idle 
days.  Stephen  Lorimer,  often  beside  Honor  when 
she  opened  and  read  these  messages  in  English 
Cathedral  towns  or  beside  Scotch  lakes,  ached  with 
sympathy  for  these  young  lovers  under  his  benevo 
lent  wing  because  of  their  inability  to  set  themselves 
down  on  paper.  He  knew  that  his  stepdaughter  was 
very  nearly  as  limited  as  the  boy. 

"Ethel,"  he  said  to  Miss  Bruce-Drummond  who 
105 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


had  met  up  with  them  for  a  week-end  at  Stirling, 
"those  poor  children  are  so  pitifully  what  Gelett 
Burgess  calls  'the  gagged  and  wordless  folk' ;  it  would 
be  so  much  easier — and  safer — for  them  if  they  be 
longed  to  his  'caste  of  the  articulate.'  " 

She  nodded.  "Yes.  It's  rather  frightful,  really, 
to  separate  people  who  have  no  means  of  communica 
tion.  Especially  when — "  she  broke  off,  looking  at 
Carter  who  was  pointing  out  to  Honor  what  he  be 
lieved  to  be  the  Eield  of  Bannockburn. 

Stephen  Lorimer  shook  his  head.  "No  danger 
there,"  he  said  comfortably.  "Top  Step  is  sorry  for 
him — a  creature  of  another,  paler  world  ...  in 
finitely  beneath  her  bright  and  beamish  boy's.  No, 
I  feel  a  lot  safer  to  have  Carter  with  her  than  with 
Jimsy  King." 

The  Englishwoman  stared.    "Keally?" 

"Yes.  I  daresay  I  exaggerate,  but  I've  always 
seen  something  sinister  about  that  youth." 

Miss  Bruce-Drummond  looked  at  Carter  Van 
Meter  and  observed  the  way  in  which  he  was  looking 
at  Honor.  "He  wants  her  frightfully,  doesn't  he, 
poor  thing?" 

"He  wants  her  frightfully  but  he  isn't  a  poor  thing 
in  the  very  least  He  is  an  almost  uncannily  clever 
and  subtle  young  person  for  his  years,  with  a  very 

106 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


large  income  and  a  fanatically  devoted  mother  be 
hind  him,  and  he's  had  everything  he  over  wanted 
all  his  life  except  physical  perfection, — and  my  good 
Top  Step." 

"Ah,  yes,  but  what  can  he  do,  after  all  ?" 

Honor's  stepfather  shrugged.  "He  knows  that  she 
would  not  be  allowed  to  marry  the  lad  if  he  went  the 
way  of  the  other  'Wild  Kings/ — that  she  is  too  sound 
and  sane  to  insist  on  it.  And  I  think — I  thought  even 
in  their  High  School  days — that  he  deliberately 
steers  Jimsy  into  danger." 

"My  word !"  said  the  novelist,  hotly.  "What  are 
you  going  to  do  about  it,  Stephen  ?" 

"Watch.  Wait.  Stand  ready.  I  shall  make  it  my 
business  to  drop  in  at  the  fraternity  house  once  or 
twice  next  season,  when  I  go  north  to  San  Francisco, 
— and  into  other  fraternity  houses,  and  put  my  ear 
to  the  ground.  And  if  I  find  what  I  fear  to  find  I'll 
take  it  up  with  both  the  lads,  face  to  face,  and  then 
I'll  send  for  Honor." 

"Eight!"  said  Miss  Bruce-Drummond,  her  fine, 
fresh-colored  face  glowing.  "And  I'll  run  down  to 
Florence  at  the  Christmas  holidays  and  take  her  to 
Eome  with  me,  shall  I  ?" 

"It  will  be  corking  of  you,  Ethel." 

"I  shall  love  doing  it." 

107 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


He  looked  at  her  appreciatively.  She  would  love 
doing  it;  she  loved  life  and  people,  Ethel  Bruce- 
Drummond,  and  she  was  able  therefore  to  put  life 
and  people,  warm  and  living,  on  to  her  pages.  She 
was  as  fit  and  hardy  as  a  splendid  boy,  her  cheeks 
round  and  ruddy,  her  eyes  bright,  her  fine  bare  hands 
brown  and  strong,  her  sturdy  ankles  sturdier  than 
ever  in  her  heavy  knitted  woolen  hose  and  her  stout 
Scotch  brogues.  He  had  known  and  counted  on  her 
for  almost  twenty  years — and  he  had  married  Mil 
dred  Carmody.  "Ethel,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "in  that 
book  of  mine  I  mean  to  have " 

"Ah,  yes,  that  book  of  yours,  Stephen!  Slothful 
creature !  You  know  quite  well  you'll  never  do  it." 

"Never  do  it!  Why," — he  was  indignant — "I've 
got  tons  of  it  done  already,  in  my  head!  It  only 
wants  writing  down." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  his  friend,  penitently,  "I  make 
no  doubt.  It  only  wants  writing  down.  Well  ?" 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  chapter  on  friendship,  and 
insert  a  really  novel  idea.  Friendship  has  never 
been  properly  praised, — begging  pardon  in  passing 
of  Mr.  Emerson  and  his  ilk.  I'm  going  to  suggest 
that  it  be  given  dignity  and  weight  by  having  licenses 
and  ceremonies,  just  as  marriage  has.  It  has  a  better 
right,  you  know,  really.  It's  a  much  saner  and  more 

108 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


probable  vow — to  remain  friends  all  one's  life,  than 
in  love.  In  genuine  friendship  there  is  indeed  no 
variableness,  neither  shadow  or  turning.  You  and  I, 
now,  might  quite  safely  have  taken  out  our  friend 
ship  license  and  plighted  our  troth, — twenty  years, 
isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Bruce-Drummond,  gently,  "it's 
twenty  years,  Stephen,  and  that's  a  quite  beautiful 
idea.  You  must  surely  put  it  in  your  book,  old  dear." 
Her  keen  eyes,  looking  away  across  the  ancient 
battlefields  were  a  little  less  keen  than  usual,  but 
Stephen  Lorimer  did  not  notice  that  because  he  was 
looking  at  his  watch. 

"Do  you  know  it's  nearly  five,  woman,  and  Mil 
dred  waiting  tea  for  us  at  the  Stirling  Arms  ?"  So 
he  called  to  the  boy  and  girl  and  fell  into  step 
beside  his  friend  and  swung  down  the  hill  to  his 
tea  and  his  wife,  a  little  thrilled  still,  as  he  always 
would  be  to  the  day  of  his  death,  at  being  with 
her  again  after  even  the  least  considerable  ab 
sence. 

It  seemed  to  Honor  Carmody  that  three  solid  sum 
mers  had  been  welded  together  for  her  soul's  disci 
pline  that  year;  there  were  assuredly  ninety-three 
endless  days  in  July.  She  was  not  quite  sure  whether 
having  Carter  with  them  made  it  harder  for  her  or 

109 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


easier.  He  was  an  accomplished  traveler;  things 
moved  more  smoothly  for  his  presence,  and — as  she 
wrote  Jimsy — he  knew  everything  about  everywhere. 
On  the  whole,  it  was  pleasanter,  more  like  home, 
more  like  the  good  days  on  South  Figueroa  Street,  to 
have  him  about;  she  could  sometimes  almost  cajole 
herself  into  thinking  Jimsy  must  be  there,  too,  in  the 
next  room,  hurrying  up  the  street,  a  little  late  for 
dinner,  but  there,  near  them:  It  was  only  when 
Carter  talked  to  her  of  Jimsy  that  she  grew  anxious, 
even  acutely  unhappy.  It  wasn't,  she  would  decide, 
thinking  it  over  later,  lying  awake  in  the  dark,  so 
much  what  Carter  had  said — it  was  what  he  hadn't 
said  in  words.  It  was  the  thing  that  sounded  in  hia 
voice,  that  was  far  back  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  would  say,  smiling  in  reminiscence, 
"that  was  a  party !  Nothing  ever  like  it  at  Stanford 
before  in  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  they 
say.  And  old  Jimsy — I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
him!  !N"o,  I  don't  really,  for  you  wouldn't  have 
approved  and  the  poor  old  scout  would  have  been 
in  for  a  lecture,  but  it  was " 

"Carter,"  Honor  would  interrupt,  "do  you  mean, 
can  you  possibly  mean  that  Jimsy — that  he's — " 
She  found  she  couldn't  say  it  after  all;  she  couldn't 
put  it  into  the  ugly  definite  words. 

110 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"Oh,  nothing  serious,  Honor !  Nothing  for  you  to 
worry  about!  He  has  to  do  more  or  less  as  others 
do,  a  man  of  his  prominence  in  college.  It's  un 
avoidable.  Of  course,  it  might  be  better  if  he  could 
steer  clear  of  that  sort  of  thing  altogether — "  he 
would  stop  at  a  point  like  that  and  frown  into  space 
for  a  moment,  as  if  remembering,  weighing,  consid 
ering,  and  Honor's  heart  would  sink  coldly.  Then 
he  would  brighten  again  and  lay  a  reassuring  hand 
on  her  sleeve.  "But  you  mustn't  worry.  Jimsy's  got 
a  level  head  on  his  shoulders,  and  he  has  too  much 
at  stake  to  go  too  far.  He'll  be  all  right  in  the  end, 
Honor,  I'm  sure  of  that.  And  you  know  I'll  always 
keep  an  eye  on  him!". 

And  Honor  twisting  on  her  finger  the  ring  with 
the  clasped  hands  and  the  hidden  blue  stone  of  con 
stancy  which  she  always  wore  except  when  her 
mother  was  with  her,  would  manage  a  smile  and  say, 
"I  know  how  devoted  you  are  to  him,  Carter.  You 
couldn't  help  it,  could  you? — Every  one  is.  And 
you  mean  to  help  him ;  I  know  that.  I  am  grateful. 
It's  next  best  to  being  with  him  myself."  Then, 
because  she  couldn't  trust  herself  to  talk  very  much 
about  Jimsy,  she  would  resolutely  change  the  subject 
and  Carter  would  write  home  to  his  hoping  mother 
that  Honor  really  seemed  to  be  having  a  happy  sum- 
Ill 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


mer  and  to  enjoy  everything,  and  that  she  was  not 
very  keen  to  talk  much  about  Jimsy. 

He  did  not  hear  the  talk  she  had  with  her  step 
father  the  night  before  they  were  to  sail  for  home. 
It  came  after  her  hour  of  fruitless  pleading  with  her 
mother  to  be  allowed  to  go  back  with  them.  Mildred 
Lorimer  had  stood  firm,  and  Stephen  had  been  silent 
and  Carter  had  sided  with  Honor's  mother. 

"It  really  would  be  rather  a  shame,  Honor, — much 
as  we'd  love  having  you  with  us  on  the  trip  home. 
You're  coming  on  so  wonderfully  with  your  work,  the 
Signorina  says.  She  intends  to  have  you  in  concert 
this  winter,  and  coming  home  would  spoil  that, 
wouldn't  it  ?"  He  was  very  sensible  about  it. 

Honor  had  managed  to  ask  Stephen  to  see  her 
alone,  after  the  rest  had  gone  to  their  rooms.  They 
were  sailing  from  Genoa  because  they  had  wanted  to 
bring  Honor  back  to  Italy  and  the  Signorina,  had 
joined  them  at  the  port  and  would  take  the  girl  back 
to  Florence  with  her.  Honor  went  upstairs  and  came 
down  again  in  fifteen  minutes  and  found  him  wait 
ing  for  her  in  the  lounge. 

He  got  up  and  came  to  meet  her  and  took  her 
hands  into  his  solid  and  reassuring  clasp.  "This  is 
pretty  rough,  Top  Step.  You  don't  have  to  tell  me." 

She  did  not,  indeed.  Her  young  face  was  drained 
112 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


of  all  its  color  that  night  and  her  eyes  looked  strained. 
It  was  mildly  warm  and  the  windows  were  open,  but 
she  was  shivering  a  little.  "Stepper,  dear,  I  don't 
want  to  be  a  goose — — " 

"You're  not,  Top  Step." 

"But  I'm  anxious.  When  Jimsy  gave  me  this  ring, 
and  told  me  what  he  had  told  his  father — that  he 
was  not  going  to  be  another  'Wild  King'  and  asked 
me  if  I  believed  him,  I  told  him  I'd  never  stop  be 
lieving  him,  and  I  won't,  Skipper.  I  won't !" 

"Eight,  T.  S." 

"But — things  Carter  says, — things  he  doesn't  say 
— Stepper,  I  think  Jimsy  needs  me  now." 

The  man  was  silent  for  a  long  moment.  He  could, 
of  course,  assert  his  authority  or  at  least  his  power, 
since  the  girl  was  Mildred's  child  and  not  his,  break 
with  his  good  friend,  the  Signorina,  and  take  Honor 
home.  But,  after  all,  what  would  that  accomplish, 
unless  she  went  to  Stanford?  He  began  to  think 
aloud.  "Even  if  you  came  home  with  us,  Top  Step, 
you  wouldn't  be  near  him,  would  you,  unless  you 
went  to  college?  And  you'd  hardly  care  to  do  that 
now — to  enter  your  Freshman  year  two  years  behind 
the  boys." 

"JSTo." 

"And  if  you  stayed  in  Los  Angeles — you  might 
113 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


almost  as  well  be  here.    The  number  of  miles  doesn't 
matter." 

"But — perhaps  Jimsy  wouldn't  stay  at  Stanford* 
then.  Oh,  Stepper,  dear,  haven't  we  waited  lon$ 
enough  ?" 

"He's  only  twenty,  T.  S." 

She  sighed.  "Being  young  is  the  cruelest  thing  in 
the  world!" 

"You  are  blaspheming!"  said  her  stepfather, 
sternly.  "T.  S.,  that's  the  only  stupid  and  wicked 
thing  you've  ever  said  in  the  years  I've  known  you ! 
Don't  ever  dare  to  say  it — or  think  it — again!  Be 
ing  young  is  the  most  golden  and  glorious  thing  in 
the  world !  Being  young — "  he  ran  a  worried  hand 
over  his  thinning  hair  and  sighed.  "Ah,  well,  you'll 
know,  some  day.  Meanwhile,  girl,  it  looks  as  if  you'd 
have  to  stick.  That's  your  part  in  'playing  the 
game!'  But  I  promise  you  this.  I  shall  keep  an 
eye  on  things  for  you;  keep  in  touch  with  the  boy, 
see  him,  hear  from  him,  hear  of  him,  and  if  the  time 
comes  when  I  believe  that  his  need  of  you  is  instant 
and  vital,  I'll  write — no,  I'll  cable  you  to  come." 

"Stepper!"  The  comfort  in  her  eyes  warmed 
him. 

"It's  a  promise,  Top  Step" — he  grinned, — "as 
you  used  to  say  when  I  first  knew  you — 'cross-my- 

114 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


heart,  hope-never-to-see-the-back-of-my-neck  I9     Now, 
hop  along  to  bed, — and  trust  me !" 

The  lift  in  the  little  hotel  put  its  head  under  its 
wing  at  ten-thirty  and  it  was  now  almost  eleven,  so 
Honor  set  out  on  foot  to  do  the  three  flights  between 
her  and  her  room.  She  ran  lightly  because  she  felt 
suddenly  eased  of  a  crushing  burden ;  Stepper,  good 
old  Stepper,  was  on  guard;  Stepper  was  standing 
watch  for  her.  There  was  a  little  writing-room  and 
sun  parlor  on  the  second  floor,  dim  now,  with  only 
one  shaded  light  still  burning,  and  as  she  crossed  it 
a  figure  rose  so  startlingly  from  a  deep  chair  that  she 
smothered  a  small  cry. 

"If  s  I,"  said  Carter.  He  stepped  between  her  and 
the  stairway. 

"Cartie!  You  did  make  me  jump!"  Honor 
smiled  at  him ;  she  was  so  cozily  at  peace  for  the  mo 
ment  that  she  had  an  increased  tenderness  for  their 
frail  friend.  "It  was  so  still  in  the  hotel  it  might  be 
the  'night  before  Christmas/ — 'not  a  creature  was 
stirring,  not  even  a  mouse.'  You'd  better  go  to  bed," 
she  added,  maternally.  "You  look  pale  and  tired." 

"I'm  not  tired,"  he  said  shortly.  He  continued  to 
stand  between  her  and  the  stairs. 

"Well — I'm  sleepy,"  she  said,  moving  to  pass  him. 

"Good " 

115 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


But  Carter  was  quicker.  He  caught  hold  of  her 
by  her  arms  and  held  her  in  a  tense  grip.  "Honor, 
Honor,  Honor!"  he  said,  choking. 

"Why,— Cartie!  You— please—-"  She  tried  to 
free  herself. 

"Honor,  I  can't  help  it.  I've  got  to  speak.  I've 
got  to  know.  Don't  you — couldn't  you — care  at  all 
for  me,  Honor  ?" 

"Carter !  Not — not  the  way  you  mean !  Of  course 
I'm  fond  of  you,  but " 

"I  don't  want  that!"  He  shook  her,  roughly,  and 
his  voice  was  harsh.  "I  want  you  to  care  the  way  I 
care.  And  I'm  going  to  make  you !" 

"Carter,"  she  was  not  angry  with  him,  only  un 
happy,  "do  you  think  this  is  fair?  Do  you  think 
you're  being  square  with  Jimsy  ?" 

"No,"  he  said,  hotly,  "and  I  don't  care.  I  don't 
care  for  anything  but  you.  Honor,  you  don't  love 
Jimsy  King.  I  know  it.  It's  just  a  silly,  boy-and- 
girl  thing — you  must  realize  that,  now  you're  away 
from  him !  Your  mother  doesn't  want  you  to  marry 
him.  What  can  he  give  you  or  do  for  you?  And 
he'll  go  the  way  of  his  father  and  all  his  family — 
I've  tried  to  lie  to  you,  but  I'm  telling  you  the  truth 
now,  Honor.  He's  drinking  already,  and  he'll  grow 
worse  and  worse.  Give  him  up,  Honor !  Give  him 

116 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


up  before  he  spoils  your  life,  and  let  me — "  with  all 
his  strength,  far  more  than  she  would  have  thought 
it  possible  for  him  to  have,  he  tried  to  pull  her  into 
his  arms,  to  reach  her  lips. 

But  Jimsy's  Skipper,  for  all  her  two  soft  years  in 
Europe,  had  not  lost  her  swimming,  hiking,  driving, 
out-of-door  vigor,  and  her  muscles  were  better  than 
his. 

"I'm  going  to  kiss  you,"  said  Carter,  huskily. 
"I've  wanted  to  kiss  you  for  years  .  .  .  always  .  .  . 
and  I'm  going  to  kiss  you  now !" 

"No,  you're  not,  Carter,"  said  Honor.  She  got  her 
arms  out  of  his  grasp  and  caught  his  wrists  in  her 
hands.  She  was  very  white  and  her  eyes  were  cold. 
"You  see?  You're  weak.  You're  weak  in  your 
arms,  Carter,  just  as  you're  weak  in  your — in  your 
character,  in  your  friendship!  And  I  despise  weak 
ness."  She  dropped  his  wrists  and  saw  him  sit  down, 
limply,  in  the  nearest  chair  and  cover  his  face  with 
his  hands.  Then  she  walked  to  the  stairs  and  went 
up  without  a  backward  glance. 

He  was  pallid  and  silent  at  breakfast  next  morn 
ing  and  Honor  was  careful  not  to  look  at  him.  It 
was  beginning  to  seem,  in  the  eight  o'clock  sunlight, 
as  if  the  happening  of  the  night  before  must  have 
been  a  horrid  dream,  and  her  sense  of  anger  and 

117 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


scorn  gradually  gave  way  to  pity.  After  all  ... 
poor  old  Carter,  who  had  so  little  .  .  .  Jimsy,  who 
had  so  much!  What  Carter  had  said  in  his  tirade 
about  Jimsy's  drinking  she  did  not  believe;  it  was 
simply  temper;  angry  exaggeration.  Mildred  Lori- 
mer,  looking  at  Carter's  white  face  and  the  gray 
shadows  under  his  eyes  and  observing  Honor's  man 
ner  toward  him,  sighed  audibly  and  was  a  little  dis 
tant  when  she  bade  her  daughter  farewell.  She 
loved  her  eldest  born  devotedly,  but  there  were  mo 
ments  when  she  couldn't  help  but  feel  that  Honor 
was  not  very  much  of  a  comfort  to  her.  .  .  . 

Stephen  held  the  girl's  hands  hard  and  looked  deep 
into  her  eyes.  "Remember  what  I  said,  Top  Step, 
'Cross-my-heart!'" 

"I'll  remember,  Stepper,  dear!  Thanks!"  She 
turned  to  Carter  and  held  out  a  steady  hand.  "My 
love  to  your  mother,  Carter,  and  I  do  hope  you'll 
have  a  jolly  crossing." 

"Will  you  read  this,  please  ?"  He  lifted  his  heavy 
eyes  to  her  face  and  slipped  a  note  into  her  hand. 
She  nodded  and  tucked  it  into  her  blouse.  Then  she 
stood  with  the  Signorina,  on  the  pier,  waving,  and 
with  misty  eyes  watching  the  steamer  melting  away 
and  away  into  the  blue  water.  When  she  was  alone 
she  read  the  little  letter. 

118 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"Dear  Honor — "  Carter  had  written  in  a  ragged 
scrawl  unlike  his  usual  firm  hand — "Will  you  try  to 
forgive  me?  You  are  the  kindest  and  least  bitter 
person  in  the  world;  I  know  you  can  forgive  me. 
But — and  this  will  be  harder — can  you  forget  last 
night  f  I  promise  to  deserve  it,  if  you  will.  Will  you 
pretend  to  yourself  that  it  never  happened,  and  just 
remember  the  good  days  we've  had  this  summer,  and 
that — in  spite  of  my  losing  my  head — I  'm  your  friend, 
and  Jimsy's  friend?  Will  you,  Honor V9 


And  Honor  Carmody,  looking  with  blurred  eyes 
at  the  sea,  wished  she  might  wave  again  and  re 
assuringly  to  the  boy  on  the  steamer,  facing  the 
long  voyage  so  drearily.  Then  she  realized  that 
she  still  could,  in  a  sense,  wave  to  him.  The  steam 
er  stopped  at  Naples  and  she  could  send  a  telegram 
to  him  there,  and  he  would  not  have  to  cross  the  wide 
ocean  under  that  guilty  weight.  She  put  on  her  hat 
and  sped  to  the  telegraph  office,  and  there,  because 
his  note  had  ended  with  a  question — had  been  in 
deed  all  a  question — and  because  she  was  the  briefest 
of  feminine  creatures,  and  because  the  Signorina, 
was  waiting  luncheon  for  her  and  did  not  enjoy 
waiting,  she  wired  the  one  word,  "Yes,"  and  signed 
her  name. 

"Carter  got  a  telegram,"  said  Mildred  Lorimer  to 
119 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


her  husband.  "I  wonder  what  it  could  have  been. 
Did  he  say?" 

"He  didn't  mention  it,"  said  Stephen.  "About 
those  silk  shirts  which  weren't  finished,  I  daresay. 
Certainly  not  bad  news,  by  the  look  of  him." 

When  Carter  Van  Meter  reached  Los  Angeles  and 
his  tearfully  happy  mother  he  drew  her  into  the 
library  and  closed  the  door.  "Mater,"  he  said  with 
an  odd  air  of  intense  repressed  excitement,  "I'm 
going  to  show  you  something,  but  you  must  promise 
me  on  your  honor  not  to  breathe  it  to  a  living  soul, 
least  of  all,  Mrs.  Lorimer." 

"Oh,  dearest,"  gasped  his  Another,  '"I  promise 
faithfully " 

He  took  Honor's  telegram  out  of  his  wallet  and 
unfolded  it  and  smoothed  it  out  for  her  to  read  the 
single  word  it  contained.  Then,  at  her  glad  cry, 
"Sh  .  .  .  Mater!  It  isn't — exactly — what  you 
think.  I  can't  explain  now.  But  it's  a  hope;  it 
may — I  believe  it  will,  one  day — lead  to  the  thing 
we  both  want !"  He  folded  it  again  carefully  into  its 
creases  and  put  it  back  into  his  wallet  and  he  was 
breathing  hard. 


CHAPTEK  IX 

ETHEL  BEUCE-DRUMMOND    was   better 
than  her  word.      She  did  not  wait  for  the 
Christmas  holidays  but  went  down  to  Flor 
ence  early  in  December  for  Honor's  first  concert,  and 
she  wrote  many  pages  to  Stephen  Lorimer. 

Of  course  you  know  by  this  time  that  the  concert 
was  a  success — you'll  have  had  Honor's  modest  cable 
and  the  explosive  and  expensive  one  from  the  fat 
lark!  They  are  sending  you  translations  from  the 
Italian  papers,  and  clippings  in  English,  and  copies 
of  some  of  the  notes  she's  had  from  the  more  im 
portant  musical  people,  and  I  really  can't  add  any 
thing  to  that  side  of  it.  You  know,  my  dear  Stephen, 
when  it  comes  to  music  I'm  confessedly  ignorant, — 
not  quite,  perhaps,  like  that  fabled  countryman  of 
mine  who  said  he  could  not  tell  whether  the  band 
were  playing  "  God  Save  the  Weasel  "  or "  Pop  Goes 
the  Queen,"  but  bad  enough  in  all  truth.  Therefore, 
I  keep  cannily  out  of  all  discussion  of  Honor's  voice. 
I  gather,  however,  that  it  has  surprised  every  one, 
even  the  Signorina,  and  that  there  is  no  doubt  at  all 

121 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


about  her  making  a  genuine  success  if  she  wants  to 
hew  to  the  line.  She  has  had,  I  hear,  several  rather 
unusual  offers  already.  But  of  course  she  hasn't  the 
faintest  intention  of  doing  anything  in  the  world  but 
the  thing  her  heart  is  set  upon.  It's  rather  pathetic, 
really.  There's  something  a  little  like  Trilby  about 
her;  she  does  seem  to  be  singing  under  enchantment. 
What  she  really  is  like,  though,  is  a  lantern- jawed 
young  Botticelli  Madonna.  She's  lost  a  goodish  bit 
of  flesh,  I  should  say,  and  her  color's  not  so  high,  and 
she  might  easily  have  walked  out  of  one  of  the  can 
vases  in  the  Pitti  or  the  TJfizzi,  or  the  Belli  Arti. 
Her  hair  is  Botticelli  hair,  and  that ' '  reticence  of  the 
flesh ' '  of  which  one  of  your  American  novelists  speaks 
— Harrison,  isn't  it? — and  that  faint  austerity. 

She  sang  quantities  of  arias  and  groups  of  songs  of 
all  nations,  and  at  the  end  she  did  some  American 
Indian  things, — the  native  melodies  themselves  ar 
ranged  in  modern  fashion.  I  expect  you  know  them. 
The  words  are  very  simple  and  touching  and  the 
Italian  translations  are  sufficiently  funny.  Well,  the 
very  last  of  all  was  something  about  a  captive  Indian 
maid,  and  a  young  chap  here  who  clearly  adores  her 
and  whom  she  hasn't  even  taken  in  upon  her  retina 
played  a  wailing,  haunting  accompaniment  on  the 
flute.  As  nearly  as  I  can  remember  it  went  some 
thing  like: 

From  the  Land  of  the  Sky  Blue  Water 
They  brought  a  captive  maid. 
122 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


Her  eyes  were  deep  as  the — (I  can't  re 
member  what,  Stephen) 
But  she  was  not  afraid. 
I  go  to  her  tent  in  the  evening 
And  woo  her  with  my  flute, 
But  she  dreams  of  the  Sky  Blue  Water, 
And  the  captive  maid  is  mute. 

My  dear  Stephen,  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  very 
nearly  put  my  nose  in  the  air  and  howled.  She  is 
a  captive  maid — captive  to  her  talent  and  the  fat 
song-bird  and  her  mother's  ambition  and  yours,  and 
her  mother's  determination  not  to  let  her  marry  her 
lad,  and  to  that  Carter  chap,  and  the  boy  playing 
the  flute — the  whole  network  of  you, — but  she's 
dreaming  of  the  Sky  Blue  Water,  and  dreaming  is 
doing  with  that  child.  You'd  best  make  up  your 
minds  to  it,  and  settle  some  money  on  them  and 
marry  them  off.  My  word,  Stephen,  is  there  so  much 
of  it  lying  about  in  the  world  that  you  can  afford  to 
be  reckless  with  it?  I  arrived  too  late  to  see  her  be 
fore  the  concert,  and  I  went  behind — together  with 
the  bulk  of  the  American  and  English  colonies — 
directly  it  was  over.  She  was  tremendously  glad  to 
see  me;  I  was  a  sort  of  link,  you  know.  When  I 
started  in  to  tell  her  how  splendidly  she'd  sung  and 
how  every  one  was  rejoicing  she  said,  "Yes, — 
thanks — isn't  every  one  sweet?  But  did  Stepper 
write  you  that  Jimsy  was  'Varsity  Captain  this  year, 
and  that  they  beat  Berkeley  twelve  to  five?  And 

123 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


that  Jimsy  made  both  touchdowns?  Do  you  re 
member  that  game  you  saw  with  us — and  how  Jimsy 
ran  down  the  field  and  shook  hands  with  the  boy 
who'd  scored  on  us?  And  how  that  gave  every  one 
confidence  again,  and  we  won?  We  always  won!" 
— and  standing  there  with  her  arms  full  of  flowers 
and  all  sorts  of  really  important  people  waiting  to 
pat  her  on  the  head,  she  hummed  that  old  battle 
song: 

You  can't  beat  L.  A.  High! 
You  can't  beat  L.  A.  High! 

and  her  eyes  filled  up  with  tears  and  she  gave  me 
her  jolly  little  grin  and  said,  "Oh,  Miss  Bruce- 
Drummond,  I  can  hardly  wait  to  get  back  to  real 
living  again!" 

Honor  was  honestly  happy  over  her  success.  It 
was  good  to  satisfy — and  more  than  satisfy — the  kind 
Signorina  and  all  the  genial  and  interested  people 
she  had  come  to  know  there ;  to  send  her  program  and 
her  clippings  home  to  her  mother;  it  was  jolly  to  be 
asked  out  to  luncheon  and  dinner  and  tea  and  to  be 
made  much  of ;  it  was  best  of  all  to  have  something 
tangible  to  give  up  for  Jimsy.  If  she  had  failed, 
going  back  to  him  and  settling  quietly  down  with 
him  would  have  seemed  like  running  to  sanctuary; 

124 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


now — witli  definite  promises  and  hard  figures  offered 
her — it  was  more  than  a  gesture  of  renunciation. 
She  could  understand  adoring  a  life  of  that  sort  if 
she  hadn't  Jimsy;  as  it  was  she  listened  sedately  to 
the  Signorinas  happy  burblings  and  said  at  inter 
vals: 

"But  you  know,  Signorina  dear,  that  I'm  going  to 
give  it  up  an4  be  married  next  year  ?" 

"You  cannot  give  it  up,  my  poor  small  one.  It 
will  not  give  you  up.  It  has  you,  one  may  truly  say, 
by  the  throat  1" 

There  was  no  use  in  arguing  with  her.  The  in 
terim  had  to  be  filled  until  summer  and  home.  She 
would  do,  docilely,  whatever  the  Signorina  wished. 

Jimsy  was  happy  and  congratulatory  about  her 
concert  but  he  took  it  no  more  seriously  than  Honor 
herself.  His  letters  were  full,  in  those  days,  of  the 
unrest  at  Stanford.  Certain  professors  had  taken  a 
determined  stand  against  drinking;  there  was  much 
agitation  and  bitterness  on  both  sides.  Jimsy  was 
all  for  freedom ;  he  resented  dictation ;  he  could  hoe 
his  own  row  and  so  could  other  fellows;  the  faculty 
had  no  right  to  treat  them  like  a  kindergarten. 
Honor  answered  calmly  and  soothingly;  she  man 
aged  to  convey  without  actually  setting  it  down  on 
the  page  that  Jimsy  King  of  all  people  in  the  world 

125 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


should  take  care  not  to  ally  himself  with  the  "wets," 
and  he  wrote  hack  that  he  was  keeping  out  of  the 
whole  mess. 

It  came,  therefore,  as  a  fearful  shock,  the  letters 
and  newspapers'  account  of  the  expelling  of  James 
King  of  Los  Angeles,  'Varsity  Captain  and  promi 
nent  in  college  theatricals,  from  Stanford  University 
for  marching  in  a  parade  of  protest  against  the  cur 
tailing  of  drinking!  She  was  alone  in  her  room 
when  she  opened  her  mail  and  she  sat  very  still  for 
minutes  with  her  eyes  shut,  her  fingers  gripping  the 
tiny  clasped  hands  on  her  ring.  At  last,  "Til  never 
stop  'believing  in  you/'  she  said,  almost  aloud. 

Then  she  read  Jimsy's  own  version  of  it.  She 
always  kept  his  letter  for  the  last,  childishly,  on  the 
nursery  theorem  of  "Eirst  the  worst,  second  the 
same,  last  the  hest  of  all  the  game." 

"Skipper  dearest,"  he  wrote,  in  a  hasty  and  stum 
bling  scrawl,  "I'm  so  mad  I  can  hardly  see  to  write. 
I  'd  have  killed  that  prof  if  it  hadn  't  been  for  Carter. 
This  is  how  it  happened.  I'd  been  keeping  out  of 
the  whole  mess  as  I  told  you  I  would.  That  night 
I  was  digging  out  something  at  the  Library  and  on 
my  way  back  to  the  House  I  saw  a  gang  of  fellows 
in  a  sort  of  parade,  and  some  one  at  the  end  caught 
hold  of  me  and  dragged  me  in.  I  asked  him  what 

126 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


the  big  idea  was  and  he  said  he  didn't  know,  and  I 
was  sleepy  and  when  we  came  to  the  House  I  dropped 
out  and  went  in.  I  wasn't  in  it  ten  minutes  and  I 
didn't  even  know  what  it  was  about.  But  when  they 
called  for  every  one  who  was  in  the  parade  next  day 
I  had  to  show  up,  of  course.  Well,  they  asked  me 
about  it  and  I  told  them  just  how  it  happened,  and 
they  said  all  right,  then,  I  could  go.  I  was  surprised 
and  thankful,  I  can  tell  you,  because  they'd  been 
chopping  off  heads  right  and  left,  some  of  the  best 
men  in  college.  Well,  just  as  I  was  going  out  through 
the  door  the  old  prof  called  me  back  and  said  he  had 
one  more  thing  to  ask  me.  Did  I  consider  that  his 
committee  was  absolutely  right  and  justified  in  every 
thing  they  'd  done  ?  Well,  Skipper,  what  could  I  say  ? 
I  said  just  what  you'd  have  said  and  what  you'd  have 
wanted  me  to  say — that  I  did  think  they  had  been  too 
severe  and  in  some  cases  unjust  and  they  canned  me 
for  it." 

There  was  a  letter  from  Stephen  Lorimer,  grave 
and  distressed,  substantiating  everything  that  Jimsy 
had  written.  (He  had  taken  the  first  train  north  and 
gone  into  the  matter  thoroughly  with  the  men  at  the 
fraternity  house,  simmering  with  red  rage,  and  the 
committee,  regretful  but  adamant.)  The  college 
career,  the  gay,  brilliant,  adored  college  career  of 
Jimsy  King  was  at  an  end.  Honor's  stepfather  had 
taken  great  care  to  have  the  real  facts  in  Jimsy's 

127 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


case  printed — he  sent  the  clipping  from  the  Los 
Angeles  paper — and  he  had  spent  an  evening  with 
James  King,  setting  forth  the  truth  of  the  case. 
But  the  fact  remained  for  the  majority  of  people, 
gaining  in  sinister  weight  with  every  repetition,  that 
the  last  of  the  "Wild  Kings"  had  been  expelled  from 
Stanford  University  for  drinking. 

"Top  Step,"  her  stepfather  wrote,  "I'm  sick  with 
rage  and  indignation.  Your  mother  is  taking  it  very 
hard — as  is  most  every  one  else.  'Expelled'  is  not  a 
pretty  word.  I  'm  doing  rny  level  best  to  put  the  truth 
before  the  public,  to  show  that  your  boy  is  really 
something  of  a  hero  in  this  matter,  in  that  he  might 
be  snugly  safe  at  this  moment  if  he  had  been  willing 
to  tell  a  politic  lie.  You'll  be  unhappy  over  this,  T.  S., 
that 's  inevitable,  but — I  give  you  my  word — you  need 
not  hang  your  head.  Jimsy  played  the  game." 

Carter,  who  had  written  seldom  since  the  happen 
ing  of  the  summer  in  spite  of  her  kind  and  casual 
replies  to  his  letters,  sent  her  now  six  reassuring 
pages.  She  was  not  to  worry.  Jimsy  was  really  do 
ing  very  well,  as  far  as  the  drinking  went,  and  he — • 
Carter — would  not  let  him  do  anything  foolish  or 
desperate  in  his  indignation.  Three  times  he  re 
peated  that  she  must  not  be  anxious.  A  dozen  times 

128 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


in  the  letter  he  showed  her  where  she  might  well  be 
anxious.  The  word  beat  itself  in  upon  her  brain 
until  she  could  endure  it  no  longer,  and  she  went 
out  through  the  pretty  streets  of  Florence  to  the  cable 
office  and  sent  Stephen  Lorimer  one  of  her  brief  and 
urgent  messages,  "Anxious."  Two  days  later  she 
had  his  answer  and  it  was  as  short  as  her  own  had 
been,  "Come" 

There  was  a  stormy  scene  with  the  Signorina.  The 
waves  of  her  fury  rolled  up  and  up  and  broke,  crash 
ing,  over  Honor's  rocklike  calm.  At  last,  breathless, 
her  fat  face  mottled  with  temper,  "Go,  then,"  said, 
the  singer,  and  went  out  of  the  room  with  heavy 
speed  and  slammed  the  door  resoundingly.  But  she 
went  with  Honor  to  her  steamer  at  Naples  and  em 
braced  her  forgivingly.  "Go  with  God,"  she  wept. 
"Live  a  little;  it  is  best,  perhaps.  Then,  my  good 
small  one,  come  back  to  me." 

Like  all  simple  and  direct  persons  Honor  found 
relief  in  action.  The  packing  of  her  trunks  and  bags, 
the  securing  of  tickets,  cabling,  had  all  given  her  a 
sense  of  comfort.  They  were  tangible  evidences  of 
her  progress  toward  Jimsy.  The  ocean  trip  was  dif 
ficult;  there  was  nothing  to  do.  Nevertheless  the 
sea's  large  calm  communicated  itself  to  her ;  for  the 
greater  portion  of  the  voyage  she  was  at  peace.  The 

129 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


situation  with  Jimsy  must  have  been  grave  for  her 
stepfather  to  think  it  necessary  to  send  for  her,  but 
nothing  could  be  so  bad  that  she  could  not  right  it 
when  she  was  actually  with  Jimsy.  She  would  never 
leave  him  again,  she  told  herself. 

Feyther  an'  mither  may  a'  gey  mad, 
But  whistle  an7  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad! 

Her  mother,  her  poor,  lovely  mother,  to  whom  she 
had  been  always  such  a  disappointment,  would  be 
mad  enough  in  all  conscience,  but  Stepper  would 
stand  by.  And  nothing — no  thing,  no  person, 
mattered  beside  Jimsy.  Friends  of  her  mother  met 
her  steamer  in  New  York  and  put  her  on  her  train, 
and  friends  of  Stephen  Lorimer  met  her  in  Chicago 
and  drove  and  dined  her  and  saw  her  off  on  the 
Santa  Fe.  She  began  to  have  at  once  a  warm  sense 
of  the  West  and  home.  The  California  poppies  on 
the  china  in  the  dining-car  made  her  happy  out  of  all 
proportion.  When  they  picked  up  the  desert  she  re 
laxed  and  settled  back  in  her  seat  with  a  sigh  and 
a  smile.  The  blessed  brown,  the  delicious  dryness! 
The  little  jig-saw  hills  standing  pertly  up  against  the 
sky ;  the  tiny,  low-growing  desert  flowers ;  the  Indian 
villages  in  the  distance,  the  track  workers'  camps 

130 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


close  by  with  Mexican  women  and  babies  waving  in 
the  doorways;  even  a  lean  gray  coyote,  loping  home 
ward,  looking  back  over  his  shoulder  at  the  train, 
helped  to  make  up  the  sum  of  her  joy.  The  West! 
How  had  she  endured  being  away  from  it  so  long  ? — 
From  its  breadth  and  bigness,  its  sweep  and  space 
and  freedom  ?  She  would  never  go  away  again.  She 
and  Jimsy  would  live  here  always,  a  part  of  it,  be 
longing. 

She  stopped  worrying.  She  was  home,  and  Jimsy 
was  waiting  for  her,  and  everything  would  come 
right. 

At  San  Bernardino  her  mother  and  stepfather  and 
her  brothers  came  on  board,  surprising  her.  She  had 
had  a  definite  picture  of  them  at  the  Santa  Fe  station 
in  Los  Angeles  and  their  sudden  appearance  almost 
bewildered  her.  Her  mother  was  a  trifle  tearful  and 
reproachful  but  she  was  radiantly  beautiful  in  her 
winter  plumage.  Stephen's  handclasp  was  solid  and 
comforting.  Her  little  brothers  had  grown  out  of 
all  belief,  and  her  big  brothers  were  heroic  size, 
and  they  were  all  a  little  shy  with  her  after  the  ex 
citement  of  the  first  greetings.  She  wondered  why 
Jimsy  had  not  come  out  with  them  but  at  once  she 
told  herself  that  it  was  better  so ;  it  would  have  been 
hard  for  them  to  have  their  first  hour  together  under 

131 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


so  many  eyes, — her  mother's  especially.  Jimsy  would 
be  waiting  at  the  station.  But  he  was  not.  There 
were  three  or  four  of  her  girl  friends  with  their 
arms  full  of  flowers  and  one  or  two  older  hoys  who 
had  finished  college  and  were  in  business.  They 
made  much  of  her  and  she  greeted  them  warmly  for 
all  the  cold  fear  which  had  laid  hold  of  her  heart. 

Then  came  the  drive  home,  the  surprising  number 
of  new  business  buildings,  the  amazing  growth  of 
the  city  toward  Seventh  Street,  the  lamentable  in 
trusion  of  apartment  houses  and  utilitarian  edifices 
on  beautiful  old  Figueroa.  Honor  looked  and  lis 
tened  and  commented  intelligently,  but — where  was 
Jimsy  ? 

The  old  house  looked  mellow  and  beautiful;  the 
Japanese  garden  was  a  symphony  of  green  plush  sod 
and  brilliant  color — the  Bougainvilla3a  almost  smoth 
ering  the  little  summerhouse  and  a  mocking-bird 
who  must  be  a  grandson  of  the  one  of  her  betrothal 
night  was  singing  his  giddy  heart  out.  Kada  was 
waiting  in  the  doorway,  bowing  stiffly,  sucking  in 
his  breath,  beaming;  the  cook  just  behind  him,  fol 
lowing  him  in  sound  and  gesture,  and  the  Japanese 
gardener,  hat  in  hand,  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  steps 
as  she  passed  to  say,  "How-do  ?  Veree  glod !  Veree 
glod!  Tha's  nize  you  coming  home!  Veree  glod!" 

132 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


Honor  shook  hands  with  them  all.  Then  she 
turned  to  look  at  her  stepfather  and  he  followed  her 
into  his  study. 

"And  we've  got  three  new  dogs,  Honor,  and  two 

cats,  and "  the  smallest  Lorimer  besieged  her  at 

the  door  but  she  did  not  turn.  She  was  very  white 
now  and  trembling. 

"Stepper,  where  is  Jimsy?" 

"Top  Step,  I — it's  like  Evangeline,  rather,  isn't 
it  ?  He  went  straight  through  from  the  north  with 
out  even  stopping  over  here.  He's  gone  to  Mexico, 
to  his  uncle's  ranch.  And  Carter  got  a  leave  of  ab 
sence  and  went  with  him.  I — you  want  the  truth, 
don't  you,  Top  Step?" 

"Yes,"  said  Honor. 

"I'm  afraid  Jimsy  rather  ran  amuck,  in  the  bitter 
ness  of  it  all.  His  father  took  it  very  hard,  in  spite 
of  my  explanations  to  him,  and  wrote  the  boy  a  harsh 
letter;  that  started  things,  I  fancy.  That's  when  I 
cabled  you.  Carter  telephoned  his  mother  from  the 
station  here  as  they  went  through — they  were  on  that 
special  from  San  Francisco  to  Mexico  City — and  she 
told  your  mother  that  Jimsy  was  pretty  well  shot  to 
pieces  and  that  Carter  didn't  dare  leave  him  done." 

"Didn't  he  write  me?" 

"He  may  have,  of  course,  T.  S.,  but  there's  noth- 
133 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


ing  here  for  you.  Mrs.  Van  Meter  told  Carter  that 
I  had  cabled  for  you,  so  Jimsy  knows." 

"Yes."  She  stood  still,  her  hat  and  cloak  on,  de 
liberating.  "Do  the  trains  go  to  Mexico  every  day, 
Stepper  ?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  believe  they  do,  but  you  needn't 
wait  to  write,  T.  S.  You  can  telegraph,  and 
let " 

"I  didn't  mean  about  writing,"  said  Honor,  quiet 
ly.  "I  meant  about  going.  Will  you  see  if  I  can 
leave  to-day,  Stepper?  Then  I  won't  unpack  at  all, 
you  see,  and  that  will  save  time." 

"Top  Step,  I  know  what  this  means  to  you,  but — 
your  mother.  ...  Do  you  think  you'd  better?" 

"I  am  going  to  Mexico,"  said  Honor.  "I  am  going 
to  Jimsy." 

"I'll  find  out  about  trains  and  reservations,"  said 
her  stepfather. 


CHAPTEK  X 

FOE  a  few  moments  it  moved  and  concerned 
Honor  to  see  that  she  was  the  cause  of  the 
first  serious  quarrel  between  her  mother  and 
her  stepfather.    She  was  shocked  to  see  her  mother's 
wild  weeping  and  Stephen  Lorimer's  grim  jaw  and 
to  hear  the  words  between  them,  but  nothing  could 
really  count  with  her  in  those  hours. 

She  took  her  mother  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her 
and  spoke  to  her  as  she  had  to  her  little  brothers  in 
the  years  gone  by,  when  they  were  hurt  or  sorry. 
"There,  there,  Muzzie  dear!  You  can't  help  it.  You 
must  just  stop  caring  so.  It  isn't  your  fault." 

"People  will  think — people  will  say "  sobbed 

Mildred  Lorimer. 

"No  one  will  blame  you,  dear.  Every  one  knows 
what  a  trial  I've  always  been  to  you." 

"You  have,  Honor!  You  have!  You've  never 
been  a  comfort  to  me — not  since  you  were  a  tiny 
child.  And  even  then  you  were  tomboyish  and 
rough  and  queer." 

135 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"I  know,  Muzzle." 

"I  never  heard  of  anything  so  brazen  in  all  my 
life — miming  after  him  to  Mexico — to  visit  people 
you  never  laid  eyes  on  in  all  your  days,  utter  stran 
gers  to  you " 

"Jimsy's  aunt  and  uncle,  Muzzie." 

"Utter  strangers  to  you,  forcing  yourself  upon 
them,  without  even  telegraphing  to  know  if  they 
can  have  you " 

"!N"o.     I  don't  want  Jimsy  to  know  I'm  coming." 

"Where's  your  pride,  Honor  Carmody?  When 
he's  done  such  dreadful  things  and  got  himself  ex 
pelled  from  college — a  young  man  never  lives  that 
down  as  long  as  he  lives ! — and  gone  the  way  of  all 
the  'Wild  Kings/  and  hasn't  even  written  to  you! 
That's  the  thing  I  can't  understand — your  running 
after  him  when  he's  dropped  you — gone  without  a 
word  or  a  line  to  you." 

"He  may  have  written,  Muzzie.  Letters  are  lost, 
you  know,  sometimes." 

"Very  seldom.  "Very  seldom!"  Mrs.  Lorimer 
hotly  proclaimed  her  faith  in  her  government's  effi 
ciency.  "I  haven't  lost  three  letters  in  forty  years. 
No.  He's  jilted  you,  Honor.  That's  the  ugly,  shame 
ful  truth,  and  you're  too  blind  to  see  it.  If  you  knew 
the  things  Carter  told  his  mother — — " 

136 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"I  don't  want  to  know  them,  Muzzle." 

"Of  course  you  don't.  That's  just  it!  Blind! 
Blind  and  stubborn, — determined  to  wreck  and  ruin 
your  whole  life.  And  I  must  stand  by,  helpless,  and 
see  you  do  it.  And  the  danger  of  the  thing !  With 
Diaz  out  of  the  country  it's  in  the  hands  of  the 
brigands.  You'll  be  murdered  ...  or  worse! 
Well — I  know  whose  head  your  blood  will  be  on. 
Not  mine,  thank  Heaven!"  There  was  very  little 
that  day,  Mildred  Lorimer  felt,  that  she  could  thank 
Heaven  for.  It  was  not  using  her  well. 

"You  know  that  Stepper  will  give  me  letters  and 
telegraph  ahead  to  the  train  people,"  said  Honor. 
"And  you  mustn't  believe  all  the  hysterical  tales  in 
the  newspapers,  Muzzie  dear.  Here's  Stepper  now." 

Stephen  Lorimer  was  turning  the  car  in  at  the 
driveway  and  a  moment  later  he  came  into  the  house. 
He  looked  very  tired  but  he  smiled  at  his  step 
daughter.  "You're  in  luck,  Top  Step!  I've  just 
come  from  the  Mexican  Consulate.  Met  some  cork 
ing  people  there,  Mexicans,  starting  home  to-morrow. 
They'll  be  with  you  until  the  last  day  of  your  trip ! 
Mother  and  father  and  daughter, — Menendez  is  the 
name.  Fascinating  creatures.  I've  got  your  reserva 
tions,  in  the  same  car  with  them!  Mildred,"  he 
turned  to  his  wife,  still  speaking  cheerily  but  begging 

137 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


for  absolution  with  his  tired  eyes,  "Senora  Menen- 
dez — Menendez  y  Garcia  is  the  whole  name — sent 
her  compliments  and  said  to  tell  you  she  would 
'guard  your  daughter  as  her  own.'  Doesn't  that  make 
you  feel  better  about  it  ?" 

"She  can  defend  her  from  bandits,  I  suppose?" 

"My  dear,  there  will  be  Seiior  Menendez,  and  they 
tell  me  the  tales  of  violence  are  largely  newspaper 
stuff, — as  I've  told  you  repeatedly.  They  will  not 
only  look  after  Honor  all  the  way  but  they  will  tele 
graph  to  friends  to  meet  her  at  Cordoba  and  drive 
her  out  to  the  Kings'  rancho — I  explained  that  she 
wished  to  surprise  her  friends.  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  now  that  I  should  have  gone  with  her  myself  if 
these  people  hadn't  turned  up." 

"Stepper,  dear!" 

"And  I'll  go  now,  T.  S.,  if  you  like." 

"ISTo,  Stepper.  I'd  rather  go  alone,  really — as 
long  as  I'm  going  to  be  so  well  looked  after,  and 
Muzzie  needn't  worry." 

"  'Needn't  worry !'  "  said  Mildred  Lorimer,  lift 
ing  her  hands  and  letting  them  fall  into  her  lap. 

"Honestly,  Muzzie,  you  needn't.  If  you  do,  it's 
because  you  let  yourself.  You  must  know  that  I'll 
be  safe  with  these  people." 

"Your  bodily  safety  isn't  all,"  her  mother,  driven 
138 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


from  that  corner,  veered  swiftly.  "The  thing  itself 
is  the  worst.  The  idea  of  it — when  I  think — after 
all  that  was  in  the  paper,  and  every  one  talking  about 
it  and  pitying  you — pitying  you,  Honor !" 

Her  daughter  got  up  suddenly  and  crossed  over 
to  her  mother.  "Every  one  but  you,  Muzzie  ?  Can't 
you  manage  to — pity  me — a  little  ?  I  think  I  could 
stand  being  pitied,  just  now."  It  was  indeed  a  day 
for  being  mothered.  There  was  a  need  which  even 
the  best  and  most  understanding  of  stepfathers  could 
not  fill,  and  Mildred  Lorimer,  looking  into  her  white 
face  and  her  mourning  eyes  melted  suddenly  and  al 
lowed  herself  to  be  cuddled  and  somewhat  comforted 
but  the  heights  of  comforting  Honor  she  could  not 
scala 

"I  think,"  said  the  girl  at  length,  "I'd  like  to  go 
up  to  my  room  and  rest  for  a  little  while,  if  you  don't 
mind,  Muzzie, — and  Stepper." 

"Eight,  T.  S.  You'll  want  to  be  fresh  for  to 
morrow." 

"Do,  dear — and  I'll  have  Kada  bring  you  up  some 
tea.  Rest  until  dinner  time,  because  Mrs.  Van 
Meter's  dining  with  us,"  she  broke  off  as  she  saw  the 
small  quiver  which  passed  over  her  daughter's  face 
and  defended  herself.  "I  had  to  ask  her,  Honor.  I 
couldn't — in  common  decency — avoid  it.  She's  so 

139 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


devoted  to  you,  and  think  what  she's  done  for  you, 
Honor!" 

Honor  sighed.  "Very  well.  But  will  you  make 
her  promise  not  to  let  Carter  know  I  am  coming?" 

"My  dear,  how  could  she?  You'll  be  there  your 
self  as  soon  as  a  letter." 

"She  might  telegraph."  She  turned  to  her  step 
father.  "Will  you  make  her  promise,  Stepper?" 

"I  will,  Top  Step.  Run  along  and  rest.  I  dare 
say  there  will  be  some  of  the  Old  Guard  in  to  see 
you  this  evening."  He  walked  with  her  to  the  door 
and  opened  it  for  her.  The  small  amenities  of  life 
had  always  his  devoted  attention.  He  smiled  down 
at  her.  "Rest!"  he  said. 

"I  can  rest,  now,  Stepper."  It  was  true.  When 
she  reached  the  haven  of  her  big  blue  room  she  found 
herself  relaxed  and  relieved.  Again  the  direct  sim 
plicity  of  her  nature  upheld  her ;  she  had  not  found 
Jimsy,  but  she  would  find  him;  she  was  going  to 
him  without  a  day's  delay ;  she  could  "rest  in  action." 

The  soft-footed,  soft-voiced  Kada  brought  her  a 
tea  tray  and  arranged  it  deftly  on  a  small  table  by 
the  window.  He  smiled  incessantly  and  kept  suck 
ing  in  his  breath  in  his  shy  and  respectful  pleasure. 
"Veree  glod,"  he  said  as  the  gardener  had  said  be 
fore  him,  "Veree  glodl  I  lige  veree  moach  you 

140 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


comin'  home!  Now  when  thad  Meestair  Jeemsie 
comin'  home  too,  happy  days  all  those  days!"  He 
had  brought  her  two  kinds  of  tiny  sandwiches  which 
she  had  favored  in  the  old  tea  times,  chopped  olives 
and  nuts  in  one,  cream  cheese  and  dates  in  the  other, 
and  there  was  a  plate  of  paper-thin  cookies  and  some 
salted  almonds  and  he  had  put  a  half  blown  red  rose 
on  the  shining  napkin. 

"Kada,  you  are  very  kind.  You  always  do  every 
thing  so  beautifully!  How  are  you  coming  on  with 
your  painting  ?" 

"Veree  good,  thank-you-veree-moach !"  He  bowed 
in  still  delight. 

"You  must  show  me  your  pictures  in  the  morning, 
Kada." 

"Thank-you-veree-moach!  Soon  I  have  one  thou 
sand  dollar  save',  can  go  study  Art  School." 

"That's  fine,  Kada!" 

"Bud" — his  serene  face  clouded  over — "veree  sod 
leavin'  theeze  house!  When  you  stayin'  home  an' 
thad  Meestair  Jeemsie  here  I  enjoy  to  work  theeze 
house ;  is  merry  from  moach  comedy !" ' 

He  bowed  himself  out,  still  drawing  in  his  breath 
and  Honor  smiled.  "Merry  from  much  comedy"  the 
house  had  been  in  the  old  gay  days ;  dark  from  much 
tragedy  it  seemed  to-day.  What  would  it  be  to  her 

141 


PLAY  THE  GAME  I 


when  she  came  back  again  ?  But,  little  by  little,  the 
old  room  soothed  and  stilled  her.  There  were  the  se 
date  four-poster  bed  and  the  demure  dresser  and  the 
little  writing  desk,  good  mahogany  all  of  them ;  come 
by  devious  paths  from  a  Virginia  plantation;  the 
cool  blue  of  walls  and  rugs  and  hangings;  the  few 
pictures  she  had  loved ;  three  framed  photographs  of 
the  Los  Angeles  football  squad;  a  framed  photo 
graph  of  Jimsy  in  his  class  play;  a  bowl  of  dull  blue 
pottery  filled  now  with  lavish  winter  roses.  It  was 
like  a  steadying  hand  on  her  shoulder,  that  sane 
and  simple  girlhood  room. 

The  window  gave  on  the  garden  and  the  King 
house  beyond  it.  She  wondered  whether  she  should 
see  James  King  before  she  went  to  Mexico.  She  felt 
she  could  hardly  face  him  gently, — Jimsy' s  father 
who  had  failed  him  in  his  dark  hour.  In  view  of 
what  his  own  life  had  been!  She  leaned  forward 
and  watched  intently.  It  was  the  doctor's  motor, 
the  same  seasoned  old  car,  which  was  stopping  be 
fore  the  house  of  the  "Wild  Kings,"  and  she  saw 
the  physician  hurry  up  the  untidy  path  and  disap 
pear  into  the  house.  James  King  was  ill  again.  She 
would  have  to  see  him,  then.  Perhaps  he  would  have 
a  good  message  for  Jimsy.  She  finished  her  tea  and 
slipped  into  her  old  blue  kimono,  still  hanging  in  the 

142 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


closet,  turned  back  the  embroidered  spread  and  laid 
herself  down  upon  the  bed.  She  took  Jimsy's  ring 
out  of  the  little  jewel  pocket  where  she  carried  it  and 
put  it  on  her  finger.  "I  will  never  take  it  off  again," 
she  said  to  herself.  Then  she  fell  asleep. 

"Fresh  as  paint,  T.  S.,"  said  her  stepfather  when 
she  came  down. 

"My  dear,  what  an  adorable  frock,"  said  her 
mother.  "You  never  got  that  in  Italy !" 

"But  I  did,  Muzzie!"  Honor  was  penitently  glad 
of  the  sign  of  fellowship.  "There's  a  really  lovely 
little  shop  in  the  Via  Tournabouni.  Wait  till  my 
big  trunk  comes  and  you  see  what  I  found  for  you 
there !  Oh,  here's  Mrs.  Van  Meter !" 

She  hurried  to  the  door  to  greet  Carter's  mother. 
Marcia  Van  Meter  kissed  her  warmly  and  exclaimed 
over  her.  She  was  thinner  but  it  was  becoming,  and 
her  gown  suited  her  perfectly,  and — they  were  seated 
at  dinner  now — was  that  an  Italian  ring? 

"Yes,"  said  Honor,  slowly,  looking  first  at  her 
mother,  "it  is  an  Italian  ring,  a  very  old  one.  Jimsy 
gave  it  to  me.  It  has  been  in  the  King  family  for 
generations.  Isn't  it  lovely?" 

"Lovely"  said  Mrs.  Van  Meter,  coloring.  She 
changed  the  subject  swiftly  but  she  did  not  really 
seem  disconcerted.  Indeed,  her  manner  toward 

143 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


Honor  during  the  meal  and  the  hour  that  followed  was 
affectionate  to  the  point,  almost,  of  seeming  proprie 
tary  and  maternal.  Some  boys  and  girls  came  in 
later  and  Mrs.  Van  Meter  rose  to  go.  "I'll  run  home, 
now,  my  dear,  and  leave  you  with  your  young 
friends." 

"I'll  go  across  the  street  with  you,  Mrs.  Van 
Meter,"  said  Stephen  Lorimer,  flinging  his  cigarette 
into  the  fire.  He  had  already  extracted  her  promise 
not  to  telegraph  Carter  but  he  meant  to  hear  it 
again. 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Lorimer,  but  I'm  going  to  ask 
Honor  to  step  over  with  me.  I  have  a  tiny  par 
cel  for  Carter  and  a  message.  Will  you  come, 
Honor  ?" 

She  slipped  her  arm  through  the  girl's  and  gave 
it  a  little  squeeze  as  they  crossed  the  wide  street. 
"Hasn't  the  city  changed  and  grown,  my  dear  ?  Look 
at  the  number  of  motors  in  sight  at  this  moment! 
One  hardly  dares  cross  the  street.  I  declare,  it 
makes  me  feel  almost  as  if  I  were  in  the  East  again." 
She  gave  her  a  small,  tissue  wrapped  parcel  for  her 
son  and  came  out  on  to  the  steps  again  with  her. 
"Be  careful  about  crossing,  Honor!" 

"Yes,"  said  Honor,  lightly.  "That  would  hardly 
do, — to  come  alone  from  Italy  and  then  get  myself 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


run  over  on  my  own  street.     What's  that  Kipling 
thing  Stepper  quotes: 

To  sail  unscathed  from  a  heathen  land 
'And  be  robbed  on  a  Christian  coast! 

Well,   good-night,   Mrs.    Van   Meter,    and  good-byr 
and  I'll  write  you  how  Carter  is !" 

The  older  woman  put  her  arms  about  her  and 
held  her  close.  "Dearest  girl,  Carter  told  me  not  to 
breathe  to  any  one,  not  even  to  your  mother,  about — - 
about  what  happened  last  summer — and — and  what 
he  asked  you,  and  I  haven't,  but  I  must  tell  you  how 
glad  .  .  ."  then,  at  the  bewilderment  in  Honor's 
face  in  the  light  of  the  porch  lamp, — "he  showed  me 
the  telegram  you  sent  him  to  the  steamer." 

"Oh, — I  remember!"  Her  brief  wire  to  him, 
promising  to  forgive  and  forget  his  wild  words  of  the 
evening  before.  She  had  quite  forgiven,  and  she  had 
so  nearly  forgotten  that  she  could  not  imagine,  at 
first,  what  his  mother  meant.  And  now,  because  the 
older  woman  was  trembling,  and  because  Carter  must 
have  told  her  of  how  he  had  lost  control  of  himself 
and  been  for  a  moment  false  to  his  friend,  she  gave 
back  the  warm  embrace  and  kissed  the  pale  cheek. 
"Yes.  And  I  meant  it,  Mrs.  Van  Meter!" 

145 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"You  blessed  child!"  Marcia  Van  Meter  wiped 
her  eyes.  " You've  made  me  very  happy." 

Honor  ran  across  Figueroa  Street  between  flash 
ing  headlights  on  automobiles,  and  her  heart  was  soft 
within  her.  Poor  old  Cartie!  How  he  must  have 
grieved  and  reproached  himself,  and  how  seriously 
he  must  have  taken  it,  to  tell  his  mother!  Fancy 
not  forgiving  people!  Her  stepfather  had  marked  a 
passage  for  her  in  her  pocket  "K.  L.  S."  .  .  .  "The 
man  who  cannot  forgive  any  mortal  thing  is  a  green 
hand  in  life,"  Stevenson  had  said.  Honor  believed 
him.  She  could  even  forgive  James  King,  poor, 
proud,  miserable  James  King,  for  failing  Jimsy.  It 
was  because  he  cared  so  much.  As  she  started  up  her 
own  walk  some  one  called  to  her  from  the  steps 
of  the  King  house. 

"That  you,  Honor  ?" 

"Yes,  Doctor!  I  just  came  home  to-day.  How 
are  you?"  She  ran  over  to  shake  hands  with  him. 
"Is  Mr.  King  very  sick  ?" 

"He's  dying." 

"Oh,  Doctor  Deeringl" 

"Yes.  No  mistake  about  it  this  time.  Wants  to 
see  you.  Old  nigger  woman  told  him  vou  were  home. 
Will  you  come  now?" 

"Of  course."  She  followed  him  into  the  house  and 
146 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


up  the  long,  shabbily  carpeted  stairs.    She  had  never 
seen  a  dying  person  and  she  began  to  shiver. 

As  if  he  read  her  thought  the  doctor  spoke.  "Isn't 
going  to  die  while  you're  here.  Not  for  a  week — 
perhaps  two  weeks.  But  he'll  never  be  up  again." 
His  voice  was  gruff  and  his  brow  was  furrowed.  He 
had  been  with  Jeanie  King  when  Jimsy  was  born 
and  when  she  died,  and  he  had  cherished  and  scorned 
James  King  for  long  years. 

There  was  a  chair  beside  the  bed  and  Honor 
seated  herself  there  in  silence.  Presently  the  sick 
man  opened  his  eyes  and  his  worn  and  ravaged  look 
of  his  son  caught  at  her  heart. 

"So,"  he  said  somberly,  "you  came  home." 

"Yes,  Mr.  King.  I  came  because  Jimsy  was  in 
trouble,  and  to-morrow  I'm  going  to  him." 

His  eyes  widened  and  slow,  difficult  color  came 
into  his  sharply  boned  face.  "You're  going  ...  to 
Mexico?" 

"Yes;  alone." 

The  color  crept  up  and  up  until  it  reached  the 
graying  hair,  crisply  waved,  like  Jimsy's.  "No  King 
woman  ever  .  .  .  held  harder  .  .  .  than  that!"  he 
gasped.  "You're  a  good  girl,  Honor  Carmody. 
They  knew  .  .  .  what  to  ...  name  you,  didn't 
they?" 

147 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


She  leaned  nearer,  holding  her  hand  so  that  the 
rays  of  the  night  light  fell  on  the  ring.  "Didn't  you 
know  I'd  'hold  hard'  when  you  let  Jimsy  give  me 
this?" 

He  hauled  himself  up  on  an  elbow  and  stared  at  it 
with  tragic  eyes.  "Jeanie  wore  it  five  years.  .  .  . 
My  mother  wore  it  thirty.  .  .  .  Honor  Carmody, 
you're  a  good  girl.  .  .  .  You  make  me  .  .  . 
ashamed.  .  .  .  Tell  the  hoy  that  .  .  .  I'm  sorry 
.  .  .  that  letter.  Bring  him  hack  ...  in  time  .  .  ." 
He  fell  back,  limp,  gasping,  and  the  doctor  signaled 
to  the  girl  to  go.  As  she  was  slipping  through  the 
door  the  sick  man  spoke  again,  querulously.  "Damn 
that  mocking-bird  .  .  .  make  somebody  shoot  him! 
.  .  .  There  was  one  singing  when  Jimsy  was 
born  .  .  .  and  when  Jeanie  went  .  .  .  and  this 
one  now,  mocking,  mocking.  .  .  ." 

She  ran  back  to  him.  "Oh,  Mr.  King,"  she  said, 
with  shy  fervor,  "he  isn't  making  fun  of  us! — Only 
of  the  bad,  hard  things!  One  sang  out  near  Fiesta 
Park  the  day  we  thought  Greenmount  would  win  the 
championship,  and  one  was  singing  the  night  Jimsy 
and  I  found  out  that  we  loved  each  other, — and  this 
one  was  singing  when  I  came  home  to-day !"  It  was 
a  long  speech  for  Honor  and  she  was  a  little  shy  and 
breathless.  "I  know  he  doesn't  mean  it  the  way  you 

148 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


think!  He's  telling  us  that  the  sad,  hard,  terrible 
things  are  not  the  real  things!"  Suddenly  she  bent 
and  kissed  his  cold  forehead.  "Oh,  Mr.  King,  if  you 
listen  to  him  with — with  your  heart — you'll  hear  it ! 
He's  mocking  at  trouble  and  disgrace, — and  misun 
derstanding  and  silly  pride!  He's — hear  him  now! 
— he's  mocking  at  pain  and  sorrow  and — and  death!" 
Then  she  ran  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  long 
stairs  and  across  the  lawn  to  her  own  house,  where 
a  noisy  and  jubilant  section  of  the  Old  Guard  waited. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  happily  clear  at  breakfast  that  Stephen 
Lorimer  had  more  or  less  made  his  peace — and 
Honor's  peace — with  his  wife.  Like  his  beloved 
Job,  whom  he  knew  almost  by  heart,  he  had  ordered 
his  cause  and  filled  his  mouth  with  arguments,  and 
Mildred  Lorimer  had  come  to  see  something  rather 
splendidly  romantic  in  her  daughter's  quest  for  her 
true  love.  Stephen,  who  never  appeared  at  break 
fast,  was  down  on  time,  heavy-eyed  and  flushed,  and 
Honor  saw  with  a  pang,  in  the  stern  morning  light, 
that  he  was  middle-aged.  Her  gay  young  stepfather ! 
His  spirit  had  put  a  period  at  nineteen,  but  his  tired 
body  was  settling  back  into  the  slack  lines  of  the  late 
fifties.  Her  mother  had  changed  but  little,  thanks 
to  the  unruffled  serenity  of  her  spirit  and  the  skillful 
hands  which  cared  for  her. 

"Muzzie,"  Honor  had  said,  meeting  her  alone  in 
the  morning,  "you  are  a  marvel !  Why,  you  haven't 
a  single  gray  hair!" 

"It's — well,  I  suppose  it's  because  I  have  it  taken 
150 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


care  of,"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer,  flushing  faintly.  "It's 
not  a  dye.  It's  not  in  the  least  a  dye — it  simply 
keeps  the  original  color  in  the  hair,  that's  all.  I 
wouldn't  think  of  using  a  dye.  In  the  first  place, 
they  say  it's  really  dangerous, — it  seeps  into  the 
brain  and  affects  your  mind,  and  in  the  second  place 
it  gives  your  face  a  hard  look,  always, — and  besides, 
I  don't  approve  of  it.  But  this  thing  Madame  uses 
for  me  is  perfectly  harmless,  Honor." 

"It's  perfectly  charming,  Muzzie,"  said  her  daugh 
ter,  giving  her  a  hearty  hug.  It  was  a  good  world 
this  morning.  The  breakfast  table  was  gay,  and 
Kada  beamed.  Takasugi  had  made  countless  pop- 
overs — Honor's  favorites — and  Kada  was  slipping  in 
and  out  with  heaping  plates  of  them.  "Pop-all- 
overs"  the  littlest  Lorimer  called  them,  steaming, 
golden-hearted.  Honor  had  sung  for  them  and  the 
Old  Guard  the  night  before  and  even  the  smallest  of 
the  boys  was  impressed  and  was  treating  her  this 
morning  with  an  added  deference  which  flowered  in 
many  passings  of  the  marmalade  and  much  brotherly 
banter.  The  girl  herself  was  radiant.  Nothing  could 
be  very  wrong  in  a  world  like  this.  Suppose  Jimsy 
had  slipped  once — twice — half  a  dozen  times,  when 
she  was  far  away  across  the  water?  One  swallow 
didn't  make  a  spring  and  one  slip  (or  several)  didn't 

151 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


make  a  "Wild  King"  out  of  Jimsy.  She  was  going 
to  find  him  and  talk  it  over  and  straighten  it  out  and 
bring  him  back  here  where  he  belonged,  where  they 
both  belonged,  where  they  would  stay.  His  expul 
sion  from  Stanford  really  simplified  matters,  when 
you  came  to  think  of  it ;  now  there  need  be  no  tiresome 
talk  of  waiting  until  he  graduated  from  college.  And 
she  had  not  the  faintest  intention  of  going  back  to 
Italy.  Just  as  soon  as  Jimsy  could  find  something 
to  do  (and  her  good  Stepper  would  see  to  that)  they 
would  be  married  and  move  into  the  old  King  house, 
and  how  she  would  love  opening  it  up  to  the  sun  and 
air  and  making  it  gay  with  new  colors!  All  this  in 
her  quiet  mind  while  she  breakfasted  sturdily  with 
her  noisy  tribe.  Good  to  be  with  them  again,  bet 
ter  still  to  be  coming  back  to  them,  to  stay  with  them, 
to  live  beside  them,  always. 

Her  train  went  at  ten  and  the  boys  would  be  in 
school  and  her  mother  had  an  appointment  with  the 
lady  whose  ministrations  kept  her  hair  at  its  natural 
tint  and  Honor  would  not  hear  of  her  breaking  it, 
so  it  was  her  stepfather  only  who  took  her  to  the 
station.  She  was  rather  glad  of  that  and  it 
made  her  put  an  unconscious  extra  fervor,  re 
morsefully,  into  her  farewells  to  the  rest.  Just  as 
she  was  leaving  her  room  there  was  a  thump  on  her 

152 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


door  and  a  simultaneous  opening  of  it.  Ted,  her 
eldest  Carmody  brother,  came  in  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him.  He  was  a  Senior  at  L.  A.  High,  a  foot 
ball  star  of  the  second  magnitude  and  a  personable 
youth  in  all  ways,  and  her  heart  warmed  to  him. 

"Ted, — dear!     I  thought  you'd  gone  to  school!" 

"Pm  just  going.  Sis, — I" — he  came  close  to  her, 
his  bonny  young  face  suddenly  scarlet — "I  just 
wanted  to  say — I  know  why  you're  going  down  there, 
and — and  I'm  for  you  a  million !  He's  all  right,  old 
Jimsy.  Don't  you  let  anybody  tell  you  he  isn't. 
I — you're  a  sport  to  pike  down  there  all  by  yourself. 
You  re  all  right,  Sis!  I'm  strong  for  you!" 

"Ted!"  The  distance  between  them  melted;  she 
felt  the  hug  of  his  hard  young  arms  and  there  was 
a  lump  in  her  throat  and  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  she 
fought  them  back.  He  would  be  aghast  at  her  if 
she  cried.  He  wouldn't  be  for  her  a  million  any 
longer.  She  must  not  break  down  though  she  felt 
more  like  it  than  at  any  time  since  her  arrival.  She 
kept  silent  and  let  him  pat  her  clumsily  and  heavily 
till  she  could  command  her  voice.  "I'm  glad  you 
want  me  to  go,  Teddy." 

"You  bet  I  do.  You  stick,  Sis!  And  don't  you  let 
Carter  spill  the  'beans!" 

"Why,  Ted,  he " 

153 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"You  keep  an  eye  on  that  bird,"  said  the  boy, 
grimly.  "You  keep  your  lamps  lit!" 

She  repeated  his  words  to  her  stepfather  as  they 
drove  to  the  station.  "'Why  do  you  suppose  he  said 
that,  Stepper?" 

Stephen  Lorimer  shrugged.  "I  don't  think  he 
meant  anything  specific,  T.  S.,  but  you  know  the 
kids  have  never  cared  for  Carter." 

"I  know;  it's  that  he  isn't  their  type.  They 
haven't  understood  him." 

"Or— it's  that  they  have." 

"Stepper!  You,  too?"  Honor  was  driving  and 
she  did  not  turn  her  head  to  look  at  him,  but  he 
knew  the  expression  of  her  face  from  the  tone  of 
her  voice.  "Do  you  mean  that,  seriously  ?" 

"I  think  I  do,  T.  S.  Look  here, — we  might  as  well 
talk  things  over  straight  from  the  shoulder  this  morn 
ing.  ShaU  we  ?" 

"Please  do,  Stepper."  She  turned  into  a  quieter 
street  and  drove  more  slowly,  so  that  she  was  able 
to  face  him  for  an  instant,  her  face  troubled. 

"Want  me  to  drive?" 

"No, — I  like  the  feel  of  the  wheel  again,  after  so 
long.  You  talk,  Stepper." 

"Well,  T.  S.,  I've  no  tangible  charge  to  make 
against  Carter,  save  that  his  influence  has  been  con- 

154 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


sistently  bad  for  Jimsy  since  the  first  day  he  limped 
into  our  ken.  Consistently  and — persistently  bad, 
T.  S.  You  know — since  we're  not  dealing  in  persi 
flage  this  morning — that  Carter  is  quite  madly, 
crazily,  desperately  in  love  with  you?" 

"I — yes,  I  suppose  that's  what  you'd  call  it,  Step 
per.  He — rather  lost  his  head  last  summer, — the 
night  before  you  sailed." 

"But  the  night  before  we  sailed,"  said  her  step 
father,  drawing  from  his  neatly  card-indexed  mem 
ory,  "it  was  with  me  that  you  held  a  little  last  ses 
sion." 

"Yes, — but  on  my  way  upstairs.  The  lift  had 
stopped,  you  know.  I  was  frightfully  angry  at  him 
and  said  something  cruel,  but  the  next  morning  he 
looked  so  white  and  wretched  and  wrote  me  such  a 
pathetic  letter,  asking  me  to  forgive  and  forget  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  I  sent  him  a  wire  to  the 
steamer,  saying  I  would." 

"Ah !    That  was  his  telegram.    We  wondered." 

"And  he's  been  very  nice  since,  in  the  few  letters 
I've  had  from  him." 

"I  daresay.  But  Ted's  right,  Top  Step.  In  the 
parlance  of  the  saints  you  do  'want  to  keep  your 
lamps  lit.'  Carter,  denied  health  and  strength  and 
physical  glory,  has  had  everything  else  he's  ever 

155 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


wanted  except  you, — and  he  hasn't  given  you  up 
yet." 

Honor  nodded,  her  face  flushed,  her  eyes  straight 
ahead. 

"And  now — more  plain  talk,  T.  S.  This  is  a  fine, 
sporting,  rather  spectacular  thing  you're  doing,  go 
ing  down  to  Mexico  after  Jimsy,  and  I'm  absolutely 
with  you,  hut — if  the  worst  should  be  true — if  the 
boy  really  has  gone  to  pieces — you  won't  marry 
him  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  girl  steadily,  after  an  instant's 
pause.  "If  Jimsy  should  be — -like  his  father — I 
wouldn't  marry  him,  Stepper.  There  shouldn't  be — 
any  more  'Wild  Kings.'  But  I'd  never  marry  any 
one  else,  and — oh,  but  it  would  be  a  long  time  to  live, 
Stepper,  dear!" 

"I'm  betting  you'll  find  him  in  good  shape, — and 
keep  him  so,  Top  Step.  At  any  rate,  however  it 
comes  out,  you'll  always  be  glad  you  went." 

"I  know  I  will." 

"Yes;  you're  that  sort  of  woman,  T.  S., — the 
'whither  thou  goest'  kind.  I  believe  women  may 
roughly  be  divided  into  two  classes;  those  who  pas 
sively  let  themselves  be  loved;  those  who  actively 
love.  The  former  have  the  easier  time  of  it,  my 
dear."  His  tired  eyes  visioned  his  wife,  now  closeted 

156 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


with  Madame.  He  sighed  once  and  then  he  smiled. 
"And  they  get  just  as  much  in  return,  let  me  tell 
you, — more,  I  really  believe.  But  I  want  you  to 
promise  me  one  thing." 

"What?" 

"That  you'll  never  give  up  your  singing.  Keep 
it  always,  T.  S.  There'll  he  times  when  you  need 
it — to  run  away  to — to  hide  in." 

She  nodded,  soberly. 

His  eyes  began  to  kindle.  "Every  woman  ought 
to  have  something!  Men  have.  It  should  be  with 
women  as  with  men — love  a  thing  apart  in  their  lives, 
not  their  whole  existence !  Then  they  wouldn't  ago 
nize  and  wear  on  each  other  so!  I  believe  there's  a 
chapter  in  that,  for  my  book,  Top  Step." 

"I'm  sure  there  is,"  said  Honor,  warmly.  They 
had  reached  the  station  now  and  a  red  cap  came 
bounding  for  her  bags.  "And  I  won't  even  try  to 
thank  you,  Stepper,  dear,  for  all " 

"Don't  be  a  goose,  T.  S., — look!  There  are  your 
Mexicans !" 

Honor  followed  his  eyes.  "Aren't  they  delicious?" 
They  hurried  toward  them.  "The  girl's  adorable!" 

"They  all  are."  Stephen  Lorimer  performed  the 
introductions  with  proper  grace  and  seriousness  and 
they  all  stood  about  in  strained  silence  until  the 

157 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


Senora  was  nervously  sure  they  ought  to  be  getting 
on  board.  "Might  as  well,  T.  S.,"  her  stepfather  said. 
She  was  looking  rather  white,  he  thought,  and  they 
might  as  well  have  the  parting  over.  Honor  was 
very  steady  about  it.  "Good-by,  Stepper.  I'll  write 
you  at  once,  and  you'll  keep  us  posted  about  Mr. 
King  ?"  She  stood  on  the  observation  platform,  wav 
ing  to  him,  gallantly  smiling,  and  he  managed  his 
own  whimsical  grin  until  her  train  curved  out  of 
sight.  One  in  a  thousand,  his  Top  Step.  How  she 
had  added  to  the  livableness  of  life  for  him  since 
the  day  she  had  gravely  informed  her  mother  that 
she  believed  she  liked  him  better  than  her  own 
father,  that  busy  gentleman  who  had  stayed  so  large 
ly  Down  Town  at  The  Office !  Stephen  Lorimer  was 
too  intensely  and  healthily  interested  in  the  world  he 
was  living  in  to  indulge  in  pallid  curiosity  about  the 
one  beyond,  but  now  his  mind  entertained  a  brief 
wonder  .  .  .  did  he  know,  that  long  dead  father  of 
Honor  Carmody,  about  this  glorious  girl  of  his? 
Did  he  see  her  now,  setting  forth  on  this  quest ;  this 
pilgrimage  to  her  True  Love,  as  frankly  and  freely 
as  she  would  have  gone  to  nurse  him  in  sickness? 
He  grinned  and  gave  himself  a  shake  as  he  went 
back  to  the  machine, — he  had  lost  too  much  sleep 
lately.  He  would  turn  in  for  a  nap  before  luncheon; 

158 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


Mildred  would  not  be  out  of  her  Madame's  deft  hands 
until  noon. 

The  family  of  Menendez  y  Garcia  beamed  upon 
Honor  with  shy  cordiality.  Senor  Menendez  was  a 
dapper  little  gentleman,  got  up  with  exquisite  care 
from  the  perfect  flower  on  his  lapel  to  his  small 
cloth-topped  patent  leather  shoes,  but  his  wife  was 
older  and  larger  and  had  a  tiny,  stern  mustache  which 
made  her  seem  the  more  male  and  dominant  figure 
of  the  two.  Mariquita,  the  girl,  was  all  father,  and 
she  had  been  a  year  in  a  Los  Angeles  convent.  The 
mother  wore  rich  but  dowdy  black  and  an  impossible 
headgear,  a  rather  hawklike  affair  which  appeared 
to  have  alighted  by  mistake  on  the  piles  of  dusky  hair 
where  it  was  shakily  balancing  itself,  but  Mariquita's 
narrow  blue  serge  was  entirely  modish,  and  her  tan 
pumps,  and  sheer  amber  silk  hose,  and  her  impudent 
hat.  The  Sefior  spent  a  large  portion  of  his  time  in 
the  smoker  and  the  Senora  bent  over  a  worn  prayer 
book  or  murmured  under  her  breath  as  her  fingers 
slipped  over  the  beads  in  her  lap,  but  the  girl  chat 
tered  unceasingly.  Her  English  was  fluent  but  she 
had  kept  an  intriguing  accent. 

"Ees  he  not  beautiful,  Mees  Carmody,  my  Papa  ?" 
She  pushed  the  accent  forward  to  the  first  syllable. 
"And  my  poor  Madrecita  of  a  homely  to  chill  the 

159 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


blood  ?    But  a  saint,  my  mawther.    Me,  I  am  not  so 

good.     Also  gmcias  a  Dios,  I  am  not  so "  she 

leaned  forward  to  regard  herself  in  the  narrow  strip 
of  mirror  between  the  windows  and — a  wary  eye  on 
the  Senora — applied  a  lip  stick  to  her  ripe  little 
mouth.  She  wanted  at  once  to  know  about  Honor's 
sweethearts.  ffA  fe  mm — in  all  your  life  but  one 
novio  ?  Me,  I  have  now  seex.  So  many  have  I  since 
I  am  twelve  years  I  can  no  longer  count  for  you!" 
She  shrugged  her  perilously  plump  little  shoulders. 
"One !  Jus'  like  I  mus7  have  a  new  hat,  I  mus'  have 
a  new  novio!" 

They  were  all  a  little  formal  with  her  until  after 
they  had  left  El  Paso  and  crossed  the  Mexican  bor 
der  at  Juarez,  when  their  manner  became  at  once 
easy,  hospitable,  proprietary.  They  pointed  out  the 
features  of  the  landscape  and  the  stations  where  they 
paused,  they  plied  her  unceasingly  with  the  things 
they  purchased  every  time  the  train  hesitated  long 
enough  for  vendadors  to  hold  up  their  wares  at  the 
windows, — fresas  (the  famous  strawberries  in  little 
leaf  baskets),  higos  (fat  figs),  Jielado  (a  thin  and 
over-sweet  ice  cream),  and  the  delectable  Cajeta  de 
Celaya,  the  candy  made  of  milk  and  fruit  paste  and 
magic.  They  were  behind  time  and  the  train  seemed 
to  loiter  in  serenest  unconcern.  Senor  Menendez 

160 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


came  back  from  the  smoker  with,  a  graver  face  every 
day.  The  men  who  came  on  board  from  the  various 
towns  brought  tales  of  unrest  and  feverish  excite 
ment,  of  violence,  even,  in  some  localities. 

If  his  friends  could  not  be  sure  of  meeting  Honor 
at  Cordoba  and  driving  her  to  the  Kings'  hacienda 
the  Senor  himself  would  escort  her,  after  seeing  his 
wife  and  daughter  home.  Honor  assured  him  that 
she  was  not  afraid,  that  she  would  be  quite  safe,  and 
she  was  thoroughly  convinced  of  it  herself;  nothing 
would  be  allowed  to  happen  to  her  on  her  way  to 
Jimsy. 

"Your  father  is  so  good,"  she  said  gratefully  to 
Mariquita. 

"Yes,"  she  smiled.  "My  Papa  ees  of  a  deeferent 
good;  he  ees  glad-good,  an7  my  Madrecita  ees  sad- 
good.  Me — I  am  bad-goodl  You  know,  I  mus'  go 
to  church  wiz  my  mawther,  but  my  Papa,  he  weel 
not  go.  He  nevair  say  'No'  to  my  mawther ;  he  ees 
too  kind.  Jus'  always  on  the  church  day  he  is  seek. 
So  seek  ees  my  poor  Papa  on  the  church  day !"  She 
flung  back  her  head  and  laughed  and  showed  her 
short  little  white  teeth. 

But  Seiior  Menendez  had  an  answer  to  his  telegram 
on  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  they  were  to  part ; 
his  friend,  the  eminent  Profesor,  Hidalgo  Morales, 

161 


PLAY  THE  GAME  I 


accompanied  by  his  daughter,  Senorita  Refugio, 
would  without  fail  be  waiting  for  Miss  Carmody 
when  her  train  reached  Cordoba  and  would  see  her 
safely  into  the  hands  of  her  friends.  Honor  said 
good-by  reluctantly  to  the  family  of  Menendez  y 
Garcia;  the  beautiful  little  father  kissed  her  hand 
and  the  grave  mother  gave  her  a  blessing  and  Mari- 
quita  embraced  her  passionately  and  kissed  her  on 
both  cheeks  and  produced  several  entirely  genuine 
tears.  She  saw  them  greeted  by  a  flock  of  relatives 
and  friends  on  the  platform  but  they  waved  devotedly 
to  her  as  long  as  she  could  see  them.  Then  she  had  a 
quiet  and  solitary  day  and  in  the  silence  the  old 
anxieties  thrust  out  their  heads  again,  but  she  drove 
them  sturdily  back,  forcing  herself  to  pay  attention  to 
the  picture  slipping  by  the  car  window, — the  lovely 
languid  tierra  caliente  which  was  coming  to  meet 
her.  The  old  Profesor  and  his  daughter  were  waiting 
for  her;  shy,  kindly,  earnest,  less  traveled  than  the 
Menendez',  with  a  covered  carriage  which  looked  as 
if  it  might  be  a  relic  of  the  days  of  Maximilian. 
Conversation  drowsed  on  the  long  drive  to  the  Kings' 
coffee  plantation ;  the  Senorita  spoke  no  English  and 
Honor's  High  School  Spanish  got  itself  annoyingly 
mixed  with  Italian,  and  the  old  gentleman,  after 
minute  inquiries  as  to  her  journey  and  the  state  of 

162 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


health  of  his  cherished  friend,  Senor  Felipe  Hilario 
Menendez  y  Garcia,  sank  into  placid  thought.  It 
was  a  ridiculous  day  for  winter,  even  to  a  Southern 
Californian,  and  the  tiny  villages  through  which 
they  passed  looked  like  gay  and  shabby  stage  set 
tings. 

The  Profesor  roused  at  last.  "We  arrive,  Senor- 
ita,"  he  announced,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  They 
turned  in  at  a  tall  gateway  of  lacy  ironwork  and 
Honor's  heart  leaped — "El  Pozo."  Eichard  King. 

"The  name  is  given  because  of  the  old  well,"  the 
Mexican  explained.  "It  is  very  ancient,  very  deep — 
without  bottom,  the  peons  believe."  They  drew  up 
before  a  charming  house  of  creamy  pink  plaster  and 
red  tiles,  rioted  over  by  flowering  vines.  "I  wait 
but  to  make  sure  that  Senor  or  Senora  King  is  at 
home."  A  soft-eyed  Mexican  woman  came  to  the 
door  and  smiled  at  them,  and  there  was  a  rapid  ex 
change  of  liquid  sentence.  "They  are  both  at  home, 
Senorita.  We  bid  you  farewell." 

The  servant,  wide-eyed  and  curious,  had  come  at 
his  command  to  take  Honor's  bags. 

"Oh — but — surely  you'll  wait?  Won't  you  come 
in  and  rest?  It  was  such  a  long,  warm  drive,  and 
you  must  be  tired." 

He  bowed,  hat  in  hand,  shaking  his  handsome  sil- 
163 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


ver  head.  "We  leave  you  to  the  embraces  of  your 
friends,  Senorita.  One  day  we  will  do  ourselves  the 
honor  to  call  upon  you,  and  Senor  and  Senora  King, 
whom  it  is  our  privilege  to  know  very  slightly.  For 
the  present,  we  are  content  to  have  served  you." 

"Oh,"  said  Honor  in  her  hearty  and  honest  voice, 
holding  out  a  frank  hand,  "this  is  the  kindest  coun 
try  !  Every  one  has  been  so  good  to  me !  I  wish  I 
could  thank  you  enough!" 

The  old  gentleman  stood  very  straight  and  a  dark 
color  surged  up  in  his  swarthy  face.  "Then,  dear 
young  lady,  you  will  perhaps  have  the  graciousness 
to  say  a  pleasant  word  for  us  in  that  country  of  yours 
which  does  not  love  us  too  well !  You  will  perhaps 
say  we  are  not  all  barbarians."  He  gave  an  order  to 
his  coachman  and  the  quaint  old  carriage  turned 
slowly  and  precisely  and  started  on  its  long  return 
trip,  the  Profesor,  still  bareheaded,  bowing,  his 
daughter  beaming  and  kissing  her  hand.  Honor  held 
herself  rigidly  to  the  task  of  seeing  them  off.  Then — 
Ji/msy!  Where  was  he?  She  had  had  a  childish 
feeling  that  he  would  be  instantly  visible  when  she 
got  there-;  she  had  come  from  Italy  to  Mexico, — from 
Florence  to  a  coffee  plantation  beyond  Cordoba  in  the 
tierra  caliente  to  find  him, — and  journeys  ended  in 
lovers'  meeting,  every  wise  man's  son — and  daugh- 

164: 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


ter — knew.  The  nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smilea 
of  the  serving  woman  brought  her  back  to  earth. 

"Senora  King?"  She  asked,  dutifully,  for  her 
hostess — her  unconscious  hostess — first. 

"8i  Senorita!  Pronto!"  The  servant  beckoned 
her  into  a  dim,  cool  sola,  and  disappeared.  "Well,  I 
know  what  that  means,"  Honor  told  herself.  "  'Right 
away.'  Oh,  I  hope  it's  right  away!" 

But  it  was  not.  The  Kings,  like  all  sensible  peo 
ple,  were  at  their  siesta;  twenty  racking  moments 
went  by  before  they  came  in.  Richard  King  was 
older  than  Jimsy's  father  but  he  had  the  same  look 
of  race  and  pride,  and  his  wife  was  a  plain,  rather 
tired-looking  Englishwoman  with  very  white  teeth 
and  broodingly  tender  blue  eyes  which  belied  the 
briskness  of  her  manner. 

"I  am  Honor  Carmody." 

"You  are "  Mrs.  King  came  forward,  frown 
ing  a  little. 

"I — I  am  engaged  to  your  nephew — to  Jimsy 
King.  I  think  you  must  have  heard  of  me." 

"My  dear,  of  course  we  have!  How  very  nice 
to  see  you!  But — how — and  where  did  you " 

The  girl  interrupted  breathlessly.  "Oh,  please, — 
I'll  tell  you  everything,  in  a  minute.  But  I  must 
know  about  him!  I  came  from  Italy  because — be- 

165 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


cause  of  his  trouble  at  college.  Is  lie — is 
slie  kept  telling  herself  that  she  was  Honor  Car- 
mody,  the  tomboy-girl  who  never  cried  or  made 
scenes — Jimsy's  Skipper — her  dear  Stepper's  Top 
Step;  she  was  not  a  silly  creature  in  a  novel;  she 
would  not  scream  and  beg  them  to  tell  her — tell  her 
— even  if  they  stood  there  staring  at  her  for  hours 
longer.  And  then  she  heard  Eichard  King  saying  in 
a  voice  very  like  his  brother's,  a  little  like  Jimsy's: 

"Why,  the  boy's  all  right!  Ab-so-lutely  all  right! 
Isn't  he,  Madeline?  Steady  as  a  clock.  That  col 
lege  nonsense " 

And  then  Honor  found  herself  leaning  back  in 
a  marvelously  comfortable  chair  by  an  open  window 
and  Mr.  King  was  fanning  her  slowly  and  strongly 
and  Mrs.  King  was  making  her  drink  something  cool 
and  pungent,  and  telling  her  it  was  the  long,  hot 
drive  out  from  Cordoba  in  the  heat  of  the  day  and 
that  she  mustn't  try  to  talk  for  a  little  while.  Honor 
obeyed  them  docilely  for  what  she  was  sure  was  half 
an  hour  and  which  was  in  fact  five  minutes  and  then 
she  sat  up  straight  and  decisively.  "I'm  perfectly 
all  right  now,  thank  you.  Will  you  tell  me  where  I 
can  find  Jimsy?" 

"I  expect  he's  taking  his  nap  down  at  the  old  well. 
I'll  send  for  him.  You  must  be  quiet,  my  dear." 

166 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


She  got  to  her  feet  and  let  them  see  how  steady  she 
was.  "Please  let  me  go  to  him !" 

"But  Josita  will  fetch  him  in  less  time,  my  dear, 

and  we'll  have  Carter  called,  too,  and "  Mrs. 

King  stopped  abruptly  at  the  look  in  the  girl's  eyes. 
"Josita  will  show  you  the  way,"  she  said  in  quite 
another  tone.  "You  must  carry  my  sunshade  and 
not  walk  too  quickly." 

Honor  tried  not  to  walk  too  quickly  but  she  kept 
catching  up  with  the  Mexican  serving  woman  and 
passing  her  on  the  path,  and  falling  back  again  with  a 
smile  of  apology,  and  the  woman  smiled  in  return, 
showing  white,  even  teeth.  It  was  not  as  long  a  walk 
as  it  seemed,  but  their  pace  made  it  consume  ten 
interminable  minutes.  At  length  the  twisting  walk 
twisted  once  more  and  gave  on  a  cleared  space,  melt- 
ingly  green,  breathlessly  still,  an  ancient  stone  well 
in  its  center. 

Josita  gestured  with  a  brown  hand.  "Alia  esta 
Senorito  Don  Diego!  Adios,  Senorit&l" 

"Gracias!"  Honor  managed. 

"Te  nada!"  She  smiled  and  turned  back  along 
the  way  they  had  come.  "It  is  nothing!"  she  had 
said.  Nothing  to  have  brought  her  on  the  last  stage 
of  her  long  quest !  Jimsy  was  asleep  in  the  deep  grass 
in  the  shade.  She  went  nearer  to  him,  stepping  soft- 

167 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


ly,  hardly  breathing.  He  was  stretched  at  ease,  hia 
sleeves  rolled  high  on  his  tanned  arms,  his  tanned 
throat  bare,  his  crisp  hair  rolling  back  from  his  brow 
in  the  old  stubborn  wave,  his  thick  lashes  on  his  cheek. 
His  skin  was  as  clean  and  clear  as  a  little  boy's;  he 
looked  a  little  boy,  sleeping  there.  She  leaned  over 
him  and  he  stirred  and  sighed  happily,  as  if  dimly 
aware  of  her  nearness.  She  tried  to  speak  to  him, 
to  say — " Jimsy !"  but  she  found  she  could  not  man 
age  it,  even  in  a  whisper.  So  she  sat  down  beside 
him  and  gathered  him  into  her  arms. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THEY  had  a  whole  hour  entirely  to  them 
selves  and  it  went  far  toward  restoring  the 
years  that  the  locusts  had  eaten.  It  was 
characteristic  of  them  both  that  they  talked  little, 
even  after  the  long  ache  of  silence.  For  Jimsy,  it 
was  enough  to  have  her  there,  in  his  arms,  utterly 
his — to  know  that  she  had  come  to  him  alone  and 
unafraid  across  land  and  sea;  and  for  Honor  the 
journey's  end  was  to  find  him  clear-eyed  and  clean- 
skinned  and  steady.  Stephen  Lorimer  was  right 
when  he  applied  Gelett  Burgess'  "caste  of  the  articu 
late"  against  them;  they  were  very  nearly  of  the 
"gagged  and  wordless  folk."  Yet  their  silence  was  a 
rather  fine  thing  in  its  way;  it  expressed  them — 
their  simplicity,  their  large  faith.  It  was  not  in  them 
to  make  reproaches.  It  did  not  occur  to  Jimsy  to 
say — "But  why  didn't  you  let  me  know  you  were 
coming? — At  least  you  might  have  let  me  have  the 
comfort  of  knowing  you  were  on  this  side  of  the 

169 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


ocean !"  And  Honor  never  dreamed  of  saying  "But 
Jimsy, — to  rush,  from  Stanford  down  here  without 
sending  me  a  line !" 

Therefore  it  was  somewhat  remarkable  that  it 
came  out,  in  the  brief  speeches  between  the  long 
stillnesses,  that  Honor  knew  that  Carter  had  tele 
phoned  to  his  mother  as  they  passed  through  Los 
Angeles,  and  that  Mrs.  Van  Meter  had  spoken  of 
Honor's  return,  and  she  had  naturally  supposed  he 
would  tell  Jimsy;  and  that  Jimsy  had  written  her 
a  ten  page  letter,  telling  with  merciless  detail  of  the 
one  wild  party  of  protest  in  which  he  had  taken  part, 
of  his  horror  and  remorse,  of  his  determination  to 
go  to  his  people  in  Mexico  and  stay  until  he  was 
certain  he  had  himself  absolutely  in  hand  and  had 
made  up  his  mind  about  his  future. 

"Well,  it  will  be  sent  back  to  me  from  Florence," 
said  Honor,  contentedly. 

"Funny  it  wasn't  there  almost  as  soon  as  you  were 
— I  sent  it  so  long  ago ! — The  night  after  that  party, 
and  I  didn't  leave  for  over  two  weeks,  and  that  makes 
it — well,  anyhow,  it's  had  time  to  be  back.  But  it 
doesn't  matter  now." 

"No,  it  doesn't  matter,  now,  Jimsy.  I  won't  read 
it  when  it  does  come,  because  it's  all  ancient  history 
— ancient  history  that — that  never  really  happened 

170 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


at  all!     But  I'm  glad  you  wrote  me,  dear!"     She 
rubbed  ber  cheek  against  his  bronzed  face. 

"Of  course  I'd  tell  you  everything  about  it,  Skip 
per." 

"Of  course  you  would,  Jimsy." 

They  were  just  beginning  to  talk  about  the  future 
— beyond  hurrying  back  to  Jimsy's  father — when 
Carter  came  for  them.  He  called  to  them  before  he 
came  limping  into  the  little  cleared  space,  which  was 
partly  his  tact  in  not  wanting  to  come  upon  them 
unannounced,  and  partly  because  he  didn't  want,  for 
his  own  sake,  to  find  them  as  he  knew  he  would  find 
them,  without  warning.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  while 
Honor  lifted  her  head  with  its  ruffled  honey-colored 
braids  from  Jimsy's  shoulder,  he  kept  his  arm  about 
her  in  brazen  serenity. 

Carter's  eyes  contracted  for  an  instant,  but  he  came 
close  to  them  and  held  out  his  hand.  "Honor !  This 
is  glorious!  But  why  didn't  you  wire  and  let  us 
meet  you  ?  We  never  dreamed  of  your  coming !  Of 
course,  the  mater  told  me  you  were  on  your  way  home, 
but  I  didn't  tell  old  Jimsy  here,  as  long  as  you  hadn't. 
I  knew  you  meant  some  sort  of  surprise.  I  thought 
he'd  hear  from  you  from  L.  A.  by  any  mail,  now." 

"Say,  Cart',  remember  that  long  letter  I  wrote 
Skipper,  the  night  after  the  big  smear  ?" 

171 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


"Surely  I  do,"  Carter  nodded. 

"Well,  she  never  got  it." 

"It  passed  her,  of  course.  It  will  come  back, — 
probably  follow  her  down  here." 

"Oh,  it'll  show  up  sometime.  I  gave  it  to  you  to 
mail,  didn't  I  ?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  it  distinctly,  because  it  was 
the  fattest  one  of  yours  I  ever  handled." 

He  grinned  ruefully.  "Yep.  Had  a,  lot  on  my 
chest  that  night." 

"Mrs.  King  thought  you  ought  to  rest  before  din 
ner,  Honor." 

"At  least  I  ought  to  make  myself  decent!"  She 
smoothed  the  collar  Jimsy's  arms  had  crumpled,  the 
hair  his  shoulder  had  rubbed  from  its  smooth  plaits, 
"She  must  think  I'm  weird  enough  as  it  is !" 

But  the  Richard  Kings  had  lived  long  enough  in 
the  turbulent  tierra  caliente  to  take  startling  things 
pretty  much  for  granted.  Honor's  coming  was  now 
a  happily  accepted  fact.  A  cool,  dim  room  had 
been  made  ready  for  her, — a  smooth  floor  of  dull  red 
tiles,  some  astonishingly  good  pieces  of  furniture 
which  had  come,  Mrs.  King  told  her  when  she  took 
her  up,  from  the  Government  pawnshop  in  Mexico 
City  and  dated  back  to  the  brief  glories  of  Maxi 
milian's  period,  and  a  cool  bath  in  a  tin  tub. 

172 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"You  are  so  good,"  said  Honor.  "Taking  me  in 
like  this !  It  was  a  dreadful  thing  to  do,  but — I  had 
to  come  to  him." 

The  Englishwoman  put  her  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
"My  dear,  it  was  a  topping  thing  to  do.  I — "  her 
very  blue  eyes  were  pools  of  understanding.  "I 
should  have  done  it.  And  we're  no  end  pleased  to 
have  you!  We  get  fearfully  dull,  and  three  young 
people  are  a  feast!  We'll  have  a  lot  of  parties  and 
divide  you  generously  with  our  friends  and  neighbors 
— neighbors  twenty  miles  away,  my  dear!  We'll  do 
some  theatricals, — Carter  says  your  boy  is  quite  mar 
velous  at  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Oh,  he  is,"  said  Honor,  warmly,  "but  I'm  afraid 
we  ought  to  hurry  back  to  his  father !" 

"I'll  have  Eichard  telegraph.  Of  course,  if  he's 
really  bad,  you'll  have  to  go,  but  we  do  want  you  to 
stay  on !"  She  was  moving  about  the  big  room,  giv 
ing  a  brisk  touch  here  and  there.  "Have  your  cold 
dip  and  rest  an  hour,  my  dear.  Dinner's  at  eight. 
Josita  will  come  to  help  you."  She  opened  the  door 
and  stood  an  instant  on  the  threshold.  Then  she 
came  back  and  took  Honor's  face  between  her  hands 
and  looked  long  at  her.  "You'll  do,"  she  said. 
"You'll  do,  my  girl !  There's  no — no  royal  road  with 
these  Kings  of  ours — but  they're  worth  it!"  She 

173 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


dropped  a  brisk  kiss  on  the  smooth  young  brow  and 
went  swiftly  out  of  the  room. 

To  the  keen  delight  of  the  hosts  there  was  a  fourth 
guest  at  dinner,  a  man  who  was  stopping  at  another 
hacienda  and  had  come  in  to  tea  and  been  cajoled  into 
staying  for  dinner  and  the  night.  He  was  a  person 
age  from  Los  Angeles,  an  Easterner  who  had  brought 
an  invalid  wife  there  fifteen  years  earlier,  had 
watched  her  miraculous  return  to  pink  plump  health 
and  become  the  typical  California-convert.  He  had 
established  a  branch  of  his  gigantic  business  there 
and  himself  rolled  semiannually  from  coast  to  coast 
in  his  private  car.  Honor  and  Jimsy  were  a  little 
awed  by  touching  elbows  with  greatness  but  he  didn't 
really  bother  them  very  much,  for  they  were  too  en 
tirely  absorbed  in  each  other.  He  seemed,  however, 
considerably  interested  in  them  and  looked  at  them 
and  listened  to  them  genially.  The  Kings  were 
thirstily  eager  for  news  of  the  northern  world ;  books, 
plays,  games,  people — they  drank  up  names  and 
dates  and  details. 

"We  must  take  a  run  up  to  the  States  this  year," 
said  Bichard  King. 

"It  would  be  jolly,  old  dear,"  said  his  wife,  levelly, 
her  wise  eyes  on  his  steady  hands.  "If  the  coffee 
crop  runs  to  it !" 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"There  you  have  it,"  he  growled.  "If  the  coffee 
crop  is  bad  we  can't  afford  to  go, — and  if  it's  good 
we  can't  afford  to  leave  it !" 

"But  we  needn't  nrind  when  we've  house  parties 
like  this !  M y  word,  Kich' — fancy  having  four  house 
guests  at  one  and  the  same  blessed  time!"  She  led 
the  way  into  the  long  sola  for  coffee. 

"Yes,— isn't  it  great?  Drink?"  Kichard  King 
held  up  a  half  filled  decanter  toward  his  guest. 

The  personage  shook  his  head.  "Not  this  weather, 
thanks.  That  enchanted  well  of  yours  does  me  bet 
ter.  Wonderful  water,  isn't  it?" 

"Water's  all  right,  but  it's  a  deuce  of  a  nuisance 
having  to  carry  every  drop  of  it  up  to  the  house." 

"Really?    Isn't  it  piped?" 

"Ah,  but  it  will  be  one  day,  Kich' !  I  expect  the 
first  big  coffee  crop  wiM  go  there,  rather  than  in  a 
trip  to  the  States.  But  it  is  rather  a  bother,  mean 
while." 

"But  you  have  no  labor  question  here." 

"Haven't  we  though?  With  old  Diaz  gone  the 
old  order  is  changed.  This  bunch  I  have  here  now 
are  bad  ones,"  King  shook  his  head.  "They  may 
revolute  any  minute." 

"Oh,  Rich'— not  really?" 

"I  daresay  they'll  lack  the  energy  when  it  comes 
175 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


to  a  show-down,  Madeline.  But  this  man  Villa  is 
a  picturesque  figure,  you  know.  He  appeals  to  the 
peon  imagination." 

The  guest  was  interested.  "Yes.  Isn't  it  true  that 
there's  a  sort  of  Robin  Hood  quality  about  him — 
steals  from  the  rich  to  give  to  the  poor — that  sort  of 
thing?" 

"That's  more  or  less  true,  but  the  herd  believes  it 
utterly."  He  sighed.  "It  was  a  black  day  for  us 
when  Diaz  sailed." 

Jimsy  King  had  been  listening.  "But,  Uncle 
Rich',  they  have  had  a  rotten  deal,  haven't  they?" 

His  uncle  shrugged.  "Got  to  treat  'em  like  cattle, 
boy.  It's  what  they  are." 

"Well,  it's  what  they'll  always  be  if  you  keep  on 
treating  ?em  that  way !"  Jimsy  spoke  hotly  and  his 
uncle  turned  amused  eyes  on  him. 

"Don't  let  that  Yaqui  fill  you  up  with  his  red 
tales!" 

"But  you'll  admit  the  Yaquis  have  been  abused  ?" 

"Well,  I  believe  they  have.  They're  a  cut  above 
the  peon  in  intelligence  and  spirit.  But — can't  have 
omelette  without  breaking  eggs."  He  turned  again 
to  his  elder  guest.  "This  boy  here  has  been  palling 
about  with  a  Yaqui  Indian  he  made  me  take  in  when 
lie  was  here  last  time." 

176 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


The  great  man  nodded.  "Yes, — I've  seen  them  to 
gether.  Magnificent  specimen,  isn't  he?" 

"They  are  wonderfully  built,  most  of  them.  This 
chap  was  pretty  badly  used  by  his  master — they  are 
virtually  slaves,  you  know, — and  bolted,  and  Jimsy 
found  him  one  night " 

The  boy  got  up  and  came  over  to  them.  "Starv 
ing,  and  almost  dead  with  weakness  and  his  wounds, 
— beaten  almost  to  death  and  one  of  his  ears  hacked 
off !  And  Uncle  Kich'  took  him  in  and  kept  him  for 


me." 


His  uncle  grinned  and  flung  an  arm  across  his 
shoulder.  "And  had  the  devil — and  many  pesos  to 
pay  to  the  local  jefe  and  the  naturally  peevish  gentle 
man  who  lost  him.  But  at  that  I'll  have  to  admit 
he's  the  best  man  on  the  rancJio  to-day."  He  threw 
a  teasing  look  at  Honor,  glowing  and  misty-eyed 
over  Jimsy' s  championing  of  the  oppressed.  "The 
only  trouble  is,  I  suppose  Jimsy  will  take  him  with 
him  when  he  sets  up  housekeeping  for  himself.  What 
do  you  think,  Maddy?  Could  Yaqui  Juan  be 
taught  to  buttle  ?" 

"E"o  butlers  for  us,  Uncle  Rich' !"  Jimsy  was  red 
but  unabashed.  "We  might  rent  him  for  a  movie 
star  and  live  on  his  earnings.  We  aren't  very  clear 
yet  as  to  what  we  will  live  on !" 

177 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


The  personage  looked  at  him  gravely.  "You  are 
going  to  settle  in  Los  Angeles  ?" 

"Yes!"  said  Jimsy  and  Honor  in  a  breath.  The 
good  new  life  coming  which  would  be  the  good  old 
life  over  again,  only  better ! 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  King,  "I  forgot,— I  asked  them 
to  come  up  from  the  quarters  and  make  music  for 
you!  They're  here  now!  Look!"  She  went  to 
the  window  and  the  others  followed.  The  garden 
was  filled  with  vaguely  seen  figures,  massed  in  groups, 
and  there  was  a  soft  murmur  of  voices  and  the  ten 
tative  strumming  of  guitars.  "Shall  we  come  out 
on  the  veranda  ?  You'll  want  a  rebozo,  Honor, — the 
nights  are  sharp."  She  called  back  to  the  serving 
woman.  "Put  out  the  lights,  Josita." 

They  sat  in  the  dusk  and  looked  out  into  the  veiled 
and  shadowy  spaces  and  the  dim  singers  lifted  up 
their  voices.  The  moon  would  rise  late;  there  was 
no  light  save  the  tiny  pin  points  of  the  cigarettes; 
it  gave  the  music  an  elfin,  eerie  quality. 

"Pretty  crude  after  Italy,  eh,  Honor?"  Eichard 
King  wanted  to  know. 

"Oh,  it's  delicious,  Mr.  King!  Please  ask  them 
to  sing  another!" 

"May  we  have  the  Golondrina?"  the  eldest  guest 
wanted  to  know. 

178 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"Well— how  about  it,  Maddy?  Think  we're  all 
cheerful  enough  ?  We  know  that  two  of  us  are !  All 
right !"  He  called  down  the  request  and  it  seemed  to 
Honor  that  a  little  quiver  went  through  the  singers 
in  the  shadow.  The  guitars  broke  into  a  poignant, 
sobbing  melody. 

"I  don't  know  what  the  words  mean,"  said  the 
personage  under  his  breath.  "I  don't  believe  I  want 
to  know.  I  fancy  every  one  fits  his  own  words  to  it." 

"Or  his  own  need,"  said  Richard  King's  wife. 
She  slipped  her  hand  into  her  husband's.  The  melody 
rose  and  fell,  sobbed  and  soared.  Honor  drew  closer 
to  Jimsy  and  he  put  his  arm  about  her  and  held  her 
hard.  "Yes,"  he  whispered.  "I  know."  The  man 
who  had  asked  for  Golondrina  sat  with  bent  head 
and  his  cigar  went  out.  Only  Carter  Van  Meter,  as 
once  long  ago  in  Los  Angeles,  seemed  unmoved,  un 
stirred,  scatheless. 

There  was  a  little  silence  after  the  music.  Then 
the  personage  said,  "You  know,  I  fancy  that's  Mex 
ico,  that  song!" 

Jimsy  King  wheeled  to  face  him  through  the  dusk. 
"Yes,  sir!  It's  true!  That  is  Mexico, — everything 
that's  been  done  to  her, — and  everything  she'll  do, 
some  day!" 

"It's—beautiful  and  terrible,"  said  Honor.  "I 
179 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


had  to  keep  telling  myself  that  we  are  all  safe  and 
happy,  and  that  nothing  is  going  to  happen  to  us !" 

Carter  laughed  and  got  quickly  to  his  feet.  "I 
suggest  indoors  and  lights — and  Honor!  Honor 
must  sing  for  us !" 

She  never  needed  urging;  she  sang  as  gladly  as  a 
bird  on  a  hush.  The  Kings  were  parched  for  music ; 
they  hegged  for  another  and  another.  She  had  almost 
to  reproduce  her  recital  in  Florence.  Jimsy  listened, 
rapt  and  proud,  and  at  the  end  he  said —  "Not  too 
tired  for  one  more,  Skipper?  Our  song?" 

"Never  too  tired  for  that,  Jimsy !"  She  sat  down 
again  and  struck  her  stepfather's  ringing,  rousing 
chords.  Instantly  it  ceased,  there  in  the  room,  to  be 
Mexico;  it  was  as  if  a  wind  off  the  sea  blew  past 
them.  The  first  verse  had  them  all  erect  in  their 
chairs.  She  swung  into  the  second,  holding  a  taut 
rein  on  herself: 

The  sand  of  the  desert  is  sodden  red ; 
Red  with  the  wreck  of  a  square  that  broke ; 
The  gatling's  jammed  and  the  colonel  dead, 
And  the  regiment  blind  with  dust  and  smoke : 
The  River  of  Death  has  brimmed  his  banks ; 
And  England's  far  and  Honor's  a  name, 
But  the  voice  of  a  school  boy  rallies  the  ranks — 
Play  up !    Play  up !  and — Play  the  Game ! 
180 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


Honor  sat  still  at  the  piano.  She  did  not  mean  to 
lift  her  eyes  until  she  could  be  sure  they  would  not 
run  over.  Why  did  that  song  always  sweep  her  away 
so? — from  the  first  moment  Stepper  had  read  her 
the  words  in  the  old  house  on  South  Figueroa  Street, 
all  those  years  ago  ?  Why  had  she  always  the  feeling 
that  it  had  a  special  meaning  for  her  and  for  Jimsy 
— a  warning,  a  challenge  ?  Jimsy  came  over  to  stand 
beside  her,  comfortably  silent,  and  then,  surprisingly, 
the  personage  came  to  stand  beside  Jimsy. 

"I've  been  wondering,"  he  said,  "if  you  hadn't 
better  come  in  to  see  me  one  day,  when  we're  all  back 
in  Los  Angeles  ?  You  haven't  any  definite  plans  for 
your  future,  have  you  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Jimsy.  "Only  that  I've  got  to 
get  something — quick!"  He  looked  at  Honor,  lis 
tening  star-eyed. 

The  great  man  smiled.  "I  see.  Well,  I  think  I 
can  interest  you.  I've  watched  you  play  football, 
King.  I  played  football,  forty  years  ago.  I  like 
the  breed.  My  boys  are  all  girls,  worse  luck — though 
they're  the  finest  in  the  world " 

"Oh,  yes"  said  Honor,  warmly. 

"But  I  like  boys.  And  I  like  you,  Jimsy  King." 
He  held  out  his  hand.  "You  come  to  me,  and  if 
you're  the  lad  I  think  you  are,  you'll  stay." 

181 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"Oh,  I'll  come!"  Jimsy  stammered,  flushed  and 
incoherent.  "I'll  come!  I'll — I'll  sweep  out  or 
scrub  floors — or — or  anything!  But — I'm  afraid 
you  don't "  he  looked  unhappily  at  Honor. 

"Yes,  Jimsy.    He's  got  to  know." 

Jimsy  King  stood  up  very  straight  and  tall. 
"You've  got  to  know  that  I  was  kicked  out  of  col 
lege  two  months  ago,  for  marching  in  a  parade 
against " 

"For  telling  the  truth,"  cried  Honor,  hot  cheeked, 
"when  a  cowardly  lie  would  have  saved  him!" 

"But  just  the  same,  I  was  kicked  out  of  college, 
and " 

"Lord  bless  you,  boy,"  said  the  personage,  and  it 
was  the  first  time  they  had  heard  him  laugh  aloud, 
"I  know  you  were!  And  that's  one  reason  why  I 
want  you.  80  was  I!" 


CHAPTEK  XIII 

THERE  were  telegrams  from  Stephen  Lori- 
mer  and  che  doctor;  James  King's  condi 
tion  remained  unchanged.  Honor  and 
Jimsy  decided  to  return  at  once,  but  Richard  King 
flatly  refused  to  let  them  go.  The  next  train  after 
Honor's  had  been  held  up  just  beyond  Cordoba  by 
a  band  of  brigands,  supposed  to  be  a  section  of  Vil- 
listas,  the  passengers  robbed  and  mistreated  and 
three  of  the  train  men  killed. 

"Not  a  step  without  an  escort,"  said  Jimsy's 
uncle. 

Then  Jimsy's  new  friend  came  to  the  rescue.  He 
was  eager  to  get  home  but  cannily  aware  of  his  own 
especial  risk, — two  wealthy  Americans  having  been 
recently  taken  and  held  for  ransom.  He  had  influ 
ence  at  the  Capital;  he  wrote  and  telegraphed  and 
the  replies  were  suave  and  reassuring ;  reliable  escort 
would  be  furnished  as  soon  as  possible, — within  the 
week,  it  was  hoped.  Meanwhile,  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  wait  He  went  back  to  the  hacienda 

183 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


where  lie  had  been  visiting,  and  life — the  merry, 
lyrical  life  of  El  Pozo,  moved  forward.  Jimsy's 
only  woe  was  that  he  was  condemned  by  her  own  de 
cision  to  share  Honor  lavishly  with  his  uncle  and 
aunt  and  their  friends  and  Carter.  "Skipper,  after 
all  these  years,  leaving  me  for  a  darn'  tea!" 

"Jimsy,  dear,"  she  scolded  him,  "you  know  that 
it's  the  very  least  I  can  do,  now  isn't  it — honestly? 
Think  how  lovely  she's  been  to  us,  and  how  much  it 
means  to  her,  having  people  here.  And  we've  got 
all  our  lives  ahead  of  us,  Jimsy!  Be  good!  And 
besides" — she  colored  a  little  and  hesitated — "it's 
— not  kind  to  Cartie."  Then,  at  the  sobering  of  his 
face.  "You  know  he — cares  for  me,  Jimsy,  and  I 
don't  believe  it's  just  cricket  for  us  to — to  sort  of 
wave  our  happiness  in  his  face  all  the  time." 

He  sighed  crossly.  "But — good  Lord,  Skipper, — • 
he's  got  to  get  used  to  it !" 

"Of  course, — but  need  we — rub  it  in,  just  now?" 
The  fact  was  that  Honor  was  anxious.  Carter  was 
pallid,  haggard,  morose.  The  brief  flare  of  composure 
with  which  he  had  greeted  her  was  gone;  he  showed 
visibly  and  unpleasantly  what  he  was  suffering  at 
the  sight  of  their  vivid  and  hearty  happiness.  Mrs. 
King  had  commented  pityingly  on  it  to  Honor  and 
it  was  simply  not  in  the  girl  to  go  on  adding  to  his 

184 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


misery.  She  began  to  be  very  firm  with  Jimsy 
about  their  long  walks  or  rides  alone;  she  accepted 
all  Mrs.  King's  invitations  and  plans  for  them;  she 
included  Carter  whenever  it  was  possible.  These 
restrictions  had  naturally  the  result  of  making 
Jimsy  the  more  ardent  in  their  scant  privacy,  and 
Honor,  amazingly  free  from  coquetry  though  she 
was,  must  have  sensed  it.  Perhaps  the  truth  was  that 
she  had  in  her,  after  all,  something  of  Mildred  Lori- 
mer's  feeling  for  values  and  conventions;  having 
flown  from  Florence  to  Cordoba  to  her  lover  she  was 
reclaiming  a  little  of  her  aloofness  and  cool  lady 
hood  by  this  discipline.  But  she  was  entirely  honest 
in  her  wish  to  spare  Carter  so  far  as  possible.  Once, 
when  Jimsy  was  briefly  away  with  his  Yaqui 
henchman  she  asked  Carted  to  walk  with  her,  but 
he  decided  for  the  dim  sola;  the  heat  which  seemed 
to  invigorate  and  vitalize  Jimsy  left  him  limp  and 
spent. 

He  brushed  her  generalities  roughly  aside.  "Are 
you  happy,  Honor  ?" 

She  lifted  her  candid  eyes  to  his  bleak  young  face. 
"Yes,  Cartie.  Happier  than  ever  before — and  I've 
been  happy  all  my  life." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment  as  if  sorting  out  and 
considering  the  things  he  might  say  to  her.  "Well, 

185 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


you  have  a  marvelous  effect  on  Jimsy.  I  don't  be 
lieve  he's  taken  a  drop  since  you've  heen  here." 

"He  hasn't  touched  a  drop  since  he  came  to  Mexi 
co,  Carter, — Mr.  King  told  me  that,  and  Jimsy  told 
me  himself !"  Honor  was  a  little  declamatory  in  her 
pride  and  he  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"Keally  ?"  He  limped  over  to  the  table  where  the 
smoking  things  were  and  the  decanter  of  whiskey 
and  siphon  of  soda.  "Let  me  have  a  look  .  .  ."  He 
picked  up  the  decanter  and  held  it  to  the  light.  "The 
last  time  I  looked  at  it,  it  came  just  to  the  top  of  the 
design  here, — and  it  does  yet.  Yes,  it's  just  where 
it  was." 

"Carter !    I  call  that  spying !" 

He  turned  back  to  her  without  temper.  "I  call 
it  looking  after  my  friend,"  he  said  gently.  "I  don't 
suppose  you've  let  him  tell  you  very  much  about 
what  happened  at  college?" 

"JSTo,  Carter.  What's  the  use  of  it,  now?  He 
wrote  it  all  to  me,  but  the  letter  must  have  passed 
me.  It's  a  closed  chapter  now." 

"I  hope  to  God  it  will  stay  closed,"  he  said,  hag 
gardly.  "But  I'm  afraid,  Honor;  I'm  horribly 
afraid  for  you." 

"I'm  not  afraid,  Carter, — for  myself  or  for 
Jimsy."  She  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window ;  she 

186 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


was  aware  that  she  hated  the  dimness  of  the  sala;  she 
wanted  the  honest  heat  of  the  sun.  "Look !"  she  said, 
gladly.  Carter  limped  slowly  to  join  her.  Jimsy 
King  was  swinging  toward  them  through  the  brazen 
three  o'clock  glare,  his  Yaqui  Juan  by  his  side.  They 
were  a  sightly  and  eye-filling  pair.  They  might  have 
been  done  in  bronze  for  studies  of  Yesterday  and  To 
day.  "Look!"  said  Honor  again.  "Oh,  Carter,  do 
you  think  any — any  horrible  dead  trait — any 
clammy  dead  hand — can  reach  up  out  of  the  grave  to 
pull  him  down  ?" 

Carter  was  silent. 

A  high  and  cleanly  anger  rose  in  the  girl.  "Carter, 
I  don't  want  to  hurt  you, — oh,  I  know  I  hurt  you  all 
the  time,  in  one  way,  and  I  can't  help  that, — I  don't 
want  to  be  unkind,  but — are  you  sure  it  isn't  be 
cause  you — care — for  me  that  you  have  this  hop& 
less  feeling  about  Jimsy  ?"  She  faced  him  squarely 
and  made  him  meet  her  eyes.  "Carter!  Tell  me." 

His  unhappy  gaze  struggled  with  her  level  look 
and  slipped  away.  "Of  course  I  want  you  myself. 
Honor.  I  want  you — horribly,  unbearably,  but  I 
do  honestly  feel  it's  wrong  for  you  to  marry  Jimsy* 
King." 

"But,  Carter — see  how  nearly  his  father  won  out  t 
Every  one  says  that  if  his  mother  had  lived — And  his 

187 


PLAY  THE  GAME ! 


Uncle  Richard !  He's  absolutely  free  from  it,  now. 
And  the  very  look  of  Jimsy  is  enough  to  show 
you " 

But  Carter  had  turned  and  was  staring  moodily 
at  the  decanter.  "It  comes  so  suddenly,  Honor  .  .  . 
with  such  frightful  unexpectedness.  Remember, 
when  we  were  youngsters,  the  World's  Biggest 
Snake,  'Samson,' — exhibited  in  a  vacant  store  on 
Main  Street,  and  how  keen  we  all  were  about  him  ?" 

Honor  kindled  to  the  memory.  "I  adored  him. 
He  had  a  head  like  a  nice  setter's  and  he  wasn't  cold 
or  slimy  a  bit!" 

"Remember  what  the  man  told  us  about  his  hun 
ger?  How  he'd  go  three  months  without  anything, 
and  then  devour  twenty  live  rabbits  and  chickens  and 
cats?" 

She  nodded,  frowning.    "I  know.    It  was  awful." 

"But  the  point  was  the  suddenness.  They  never 
knew  when  the  hunger  would  seize  him.  The  fellow 
said  that  it  came  like  a  flash.  He  was  gentle  as  a 
lamb  for  weeks  on  end — and  then  it  came.  He'd 
pounce  on  the  keeper's  pet  rabbit — his  dog — the  man 
himself  if  he  were  within  reach.  He  was  an  utterly 
changed  creature;  he  was  just — an  appetite/'  He 
stood  staring  somberly  at  the  decanter.  "That's  the 
way  it  comes,  Honor/' 

188 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


It  seemed  to  be  getting  dimmer  and  dimmer  in  the 
sola.  Honor  found  herself  wishing  with  all  her  heart 
for  her  stepfather.  Stephen  Lorimer  would  know 
how  to  answer ;  how  to  parry, — to  combat  this  thing. 
She  felt  her  own  weapons  clumsy  and  blunt,  but  such 
as  they  were  she  would  use  them. 

"But  it  isn't  coming  ever  again,  Carter!  I  tell 
you  it  isn't  coming!  And  I  want  you  to  stop  say 
ing  and  thinking  that  it  is!  Now  I'm  going  to 
Jimsy!" 

In  the  wide  out-of-doors,  under  the  unbelievably 
blue  sky  and  the  stinging  sun,  with  Jimsy  and  Yaqui 
Juan,  life  was  sound  and  whole  again.  The  Indian, 
tall  as  a  pine,  looked  at  her  with  eyes  of  respectful 
adoration  and  smiled  his  slow,  melancholy  smile,  as 
she  swung  off  with  the  boy,  down  the  path  which  led 
to  the  old  well. 

"Juan  approves  of  me,  doesn't  he?"  said  Honor, 
contentedly. 

"Of  course;  you're  my  woman!"  She  loved  his 
happy  impudence.  "Aren't  you,  Skipper?"  They 
had  passed  the  twist  in  the  path — the  path  which 
was  like  a  moist  green  tunnel  through  the  tropic 
jungle — which  hid  them  from  the  house  and  she 
halted  and  went  swiftly  into  his  arms. 

"Yes,  Jimsy!  Yes!  And — Fve  been  stingy  and 
189 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


mean  to  you  but  I  won't  be,  any  more.    Carter  must 
just — stand  things." 

"Skipper!"  He  wasn't  facile  with  words,  Jimsy 
King,  but  he  was  able  to  make  himself  clear. 

"Jimsy,  isn't  it  wonderful — the  all-rightness  of 
everything?  Being  together  again,  and " 

"Going  to  be  together  always!  And  my  job  wait 
ing  !  Isn't  the  old  boy  a  wonder  ?  I  saw  him,  just 
now.  He  says  he's  heard  from  Mexico  City  and  it's 
O.  K.  to  start  Thursday.  They're  going  to  send 
the  escort." 

"In  two  days,"  said  Honor,  blissfully,  "we'll  be 
on  our  way  home !  Jimsy,  in  two  days !" 

But  in  two  days  dizzyingly,  terrifyingly  much  had 
happened.  The  pleasant  little  comedy  of  life  at  El 
Pozo  had  changed  to  melodrama,  crude  and  strident. 
They  had  been  attacked  by  a  band  of  insurrectos,  a 
wing  of  Villa's  hectic  army,  presumably ;  the  peons, 
with  the  exception  of  the  house  servants  and  Yaqui 
Juan,  had  gone  gleefully  over  to  the  enemy ;  Richard 
King  had  been  wounded  in  his  hotheaded  defense 
of  his  hacienda,  shot  through  the  shoulder,  and  was 
running  a  temperature;  the  telephone  wires  were 
cut ;  infinitely  worse  than  all,  the  besiegers  had  taken 
possession  of  the  well  and  they  were  entirely  without 
water. 

190 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


There  had  been,  of  course,  the  usual  supply  in  the 
house  at  the  time  of  the  attack  and  it  had  been  made 
to  last  as  long  as  was  humanly  possible,  the  lion's 
share  going  to  the  wounded  man,  but  they  had  ar 
rived,  now,  at  the  point  of  actual  suffering.  His  role 
of  helpless  inaction  was  an  intolerable  one  for  Jimsy 
King  to  play.  To  know  that — less  than  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  away,  down  the  moist  green  path  through  the 
tropic  verdure — was  the  well;  to  see  Honor's  dry 
lips  and  strained  eyes,  Carter's  deathly  pallor,  to 
hear  his  uncle,  out  of  his  head,  mercifully,  most  of 
the  time,  begging  for  water,  meant  a  constant  battle 
with  himself  not  to  rush  out,  to  make  one  frantic  try 
at  least,  but  he  knew  that  the  deeper  courage  of 
patient  waiting  was  required  of  him.  They  could 
only  conjecture  what  the  invaders  meant  to  do, — 
whether  they  intended  to  have  them  die  of  thirst, 
whether  they  meant  to  rush  the  house  when  it  suited 
their  pleasure — raggedly  fortified  and  guarded  by 
Jimsy  and  Carter  and  the  half  dozen  of  the  faithful. 
Jimsy  had  talked  the  latter  probability  over  steadily 
with  Honor  and  she  understood. 

"Jimsy,"  she  managed  not  to  let  her  teeth  chatter, 
"it's  like  a  play  or — or  a  Wild  West  tale,  isn't  it? 
Like  a  'Frank  Merriwell' — remember  when  you  used 
to  adore  those  things?" 

191 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"No,  Skipper,  it's  not  like  a  'Frank  MerriwelP; 
lie  could  always  do  something  .  .  ."  Jimsy's  strong 
teeth  ground  together. 

"Yes — 'Blooey,  blooey !  Fifteen  more  redskins  bit 
the  dust!'" 

"Skipper,  you  wonder!    You  brick!" 

"  Jimsy,  I — there's  no  use  talking  about  things  that 
may  never  happen,  because  of  course  help  will  get 
here,  but  if  it  should  not — if  they  should  rush  us,  and 
we  couldn't  keep  them  out" — her  hoarse  voice  faltered 
but  her  eyes  held  his — "you  won't — you  wouldn't  let 
them — take  me,  Jimsy  ?" 

"£To,  Skipper." 

"Promise,  Jimsy?" 

"Promise,  Skipper.  'Cross  my  heart  F  "  The  old 
good  foolish  words  of  the  old  safe  days,  here,  now, 
in  this  hideous  and  garish  present ! 

With  that  pledge  she  was  visibly  able  to  give  her 
self  to  a  livelier  hope.  "But  of  course  Yaqui  Juan 
got  through  to  the  Grants'  hacienda!  Can  you 
imagine  him  failing  us,  Jimsy?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "He'll  make  it  if  any  man  liv 
ing  could."  The  Indian  had  slipped  through  the 
insurrectos  in  the  first  hour,  as  soon  as  it  had  been 
known  that  the  wires  were  cut.  Unless  the  Grants, 
too,  were  besieged,  they  would  be  able  to  telephone 

192 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


for  help  for  El  Pozo,  and  if  they  were  likewise  in 
duress,  Yaqui  Juan  would  go  on  to  the  next  r&ncho, 
— on  and  on  until  he  could  set  the  wheels  of  rescue  in 
motion.  "I  wish  to  God  I  had  his  job.  Doing  some 
thing " 

Carter  came  into  the  sola.  He  was  terrifyingly 
white  but  with  an  admirable  composure.  "Steady, 
old  boy,"  he  said,  putting  his  frail  hand  on  Jimsy' s 
shoulder.  "Sit  tight!  We  depend  on  you.  And 
you're  doing" — he  looked  at  the  decanter,  as  if  meas 
uring  its  contents  with  his  eye — "gloriously,  splen 
didly,  old  son!  I  know  the  strain  you're  under. 
You're  a  bigger  man  even  than  I  thought  you  were, 
Jimsy." 

Honor  went  away  to  sit  with  Mrs.  King  and  the 
sick  man  and  both  boys  stared  unhappily  after  her. 

"If    Skipper   were   only   out  of   this "     Jimsy 

groaned. 

"And  whose  fault  is  it  that  she's  in  it?"  Carter 
snarled.  Two  red  spots  sprang  into  his  white  cheeks. 

"Why — Cart'!"  Jimsy  backed  away  from  him, 
staring. 

"Whose  fault  is  it,  I  say  ?"  Carter  followed  him. 
"If  she  hadn't  been  terrified  over  you,  if  she  hadn't 
the  insane  idea  of  duty  and  loyalty  to  you,  would 
she  have  come  ?  Would  she  ?" 

193 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


Jimsy  King  sat  down  and  looked  at  him,  aghast. 
"Good  Lord,  Cart'— that's  the  truth!  That  shows 
what  a  mutt  I  am.  It  hasn't  struck  me  before.  It's 
all  my  fault." 

"Whatever  happens  to  Honor — whatever  happens 
to  her — and  death  wouldn't  be  the  worst  thing,  would 
It  ? — it's  your  fault.  Do  you  hear  what  I  say  ?  It's 
all  your  fault !"  In  all  the  years  since  he  had  known 
him  Jimsy  had  never  seen  Carter  Van  Meter  like 
this, — cool  Carter,  with  his  little  elegancies  of  dress 
and  manner,  his  studied  detachment.  This  was  a  dif 
ferent  person  altogether, — hot-eyed,  white-lipped, 
snarling.  "Your  fault  if  she  dies  here,  dies  of  thirst ; 
your  fault  if  they  get  in  here  and  carry  her  off,  those 
filthy  brutes  out  there." 

"They'll  never  .  .  .  get  her,"  said  Jimsy  King. 
His  face  was  scarlet  and  he  was  breathing  hard  and 
clenching  and  unclenching  his  hands. 

"Yes,"  Carter  sneered,  "yes!  I  know  what  you 
mean !  You  feel  very  heroic  about  it.  You  feel  like 
a  hero  in  a  movie,  don't  you  ?  Noble  of  you,  isn't  it  ? 
Slay  the  heroine  with  your  own  hands  rather  than 
let  her " 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  Cart' !"  Jimsy  got  up  and 
came  toward  him.  "Cut  it  out!  What's  the  good 
of  talking  like  that  ?  We're  in  it  now,  all  of  us,  and 

194 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


we've  got  to  stick  it  out.    I  know  it's  harder  on  you 
because  you're  not  strong,  but " 

"Damn  you!  'Not  strong — '  Not  built  like  an 
ox — muscles  in  my  brain  instead  of  my  legs!  Be 
cause  I  cared  for  something  else  besides  rolling  around 
in  the  mud  with  a  leather  ball  in  my  arms " 

"Key  down,  old  boy."  Jimsy  was  cool  now,  un- 
resentful;  he  understood.  Poor  old  Cart'  ...  he 
couldn't  stand  much  suffering. 

"That's  how  you  got  Honor,  when  she  was  a  child, 
with  no  sense  of  values,  but  you  haven't  held  her! 
You  can't  hold  her." 

"Cart',  I'm  not  going  to  get  sore  at  you.  I  know 
you're  about  all  in.  You  don't  know  what  you're 
saying." 

"Don't  I  ?  Don't  I  ?  You  listen  to  me.  Honor 
Carmody  never  really  loved  you;  it  was  a  silly  boy- 
aud-girl,  calf  love  affair,  and  when  she  realized  it 
she  stood  by,  of  course, — she's  that  sort.  She  kept  the 
letter  of  her  promise,  but  she  couldn't  keep  the 
spirit." 

"Key  down,  old  top,"  said  Jimsy  King  again, 
grinning.  "I'm  not  going  to  get  sore,  but  I  don't 
want  to  use  up  my  breath  laughing  at  you. 
Skipper — going  back  on  me!"  He  did  laugh, 
ringingly. 

195 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"She  hasn't  gone  back  on  you ;  except  in  her  heart. 
Good  God,  Jimsy  King,  what  do  you  think  you  are 
to  hold  a  girl  like  that — with  her  talent  and  her  suc 
cess  and  her  future  ?  She's  only  stuck  by  you  because 
it  was  her  creed,  that's  all." 

"Look  here,  Cart',  I'm  not  going  to  argue  with  you. 
It's  not  on  the  square  to  Skipper  even  to  talk  about 
it,  but  don't  be  a  crazy  fool.  Would  she  have  come 
to  me  here — from  Italy,  if  she  didn't " 

"Yes.  Yes,  she  would!  She's  pledged  to  see  it 
through — to  stand  by  you  as  all  the  other  miserable 
women  have  stood  by  the  men  of  your  family, — if 
you're  cad  enough  to  let  her." 

That  caught  and  stuck.  "If  I'm — cad  enough  to 
let  her,"  said  Jimsy  in  a  curiously  flat  voice.  But 
the  mood  passed  in  a  flash.  "It's  no  use  talking  like 
that,  Carter.  Of  course  I  know  I'm  not  good  enough 
or  brainy  enough — or  anything  enough  for  Skipper, 
but  she  thinks  I  am,  and " 

"You  poor  fool,  she  doesn't  think  so.  I  tell  you 
she's  only  standing  by  because  she  said  she  would. 
I  tell  you  she  cares  for  some  one  else." 

"That's  a  lie,"  said  Jimsy  King  with  emphasis 
but  without  passion.  The  statement  was  too  grotesque 
for  any  feeling  over  it. 

Carter  stopped  raving  and  snarling  and  became 
196 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


very  cool  and  coherent.  "I  think  I  can  prove  it  to 
you,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"You  can't,"  said  Jimsy,  turning  and  walking  to 
ward  the  door. 

"Are  you  afraid  to  listen?"  He  asked  it  very 
quietly. 

"No,"  said  Jimsy  King,  wheeling.  "I'm  not  afraid. 
Go  ahead.  Get  it  off  your  chest." 

"Well,  in  the  first  place, — hasn't  she  kept  you  at 
arm's  length  here?  Hasn't  she  insisted  on  heing 
with  other  people  all  the  time, — on  having  me  with 
you?" 

"Cart',  I  hate  to  say  it,  but  that's  because  she's 
sorry  for  you." 

"And  for  herself." 

The  murky  dimness  of  the  said  was  pressing  in  on 
Jimsy  as  it  had  on  the  girl,  that  other  day.  He  was 
worn  with  vigil  and  torn  with  thirst,  sick  with  dread 
of  what  might  any  moment  come  to  them, — with  re 
morse  for  bringing  Honor  there,  tormented  with  his 
helplessness  to  save  her.  Even  at  his  best  he  was  no 
match  for  the  other's  cleverness  and  now  he  was  in  the 
dust,  blaming  and  hating  himself.  He  stood  there 
in  silence,  listening,  and  Carter's  hoarse  voice,  Cart 
er's  plausible  words,  went  on  and  on.  "But  I  don't 
believe  it,"  Jimsy  would  say  at  intervals.  "She 

197 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


doesn't  care  for  you,  Cart'.  She's  all  mine,  Skipper 
is.  She  doesn't  care  for  you." 

"Wait !"  Carter  took  out  his  wallet  of  limp  leather 
with  his  initials  on  it  in  delicately  wrought  gold  let 
ters  and  opened  it.  "I  didn't  mean  to  show  you  this, 
but  I  see  that  I  must.  It  was  last  summer.  I — I 
lost  my  head  the  night  before  we  sailed,  and  let 
Honor  see.  .  .  .  Then  I  asked  her.  ...  I  didn't 
say,  'Will  you  marry  me  ?'  because  I  knew  there  was 
no  hope  of  that  so  long  as  she  thought  there  was  a 
chance  of  saving  you  by  standing  by  you.  I  asked 
her — something  else.  And  she  sent  me  this  wire  to 
the  boat  at  Naples." 

Jimsy  did  not  put  out  his  hand  to  take  the  slip  of 
paper  which  Carter  unfolded  and  smoothed  and  held 
toward  him.  It  was  utterly  still  in  the  sold  but  from 
an  upper  room  came  the  sound  of  Richard  King's 
voice,  faint,  thick,  begging  for  water,  and  from 
somewhere  in  the  distance  a  muffled  shot  .  .  .  three 
shots. 

Carter  held  the  message  up  before  Jimsy's  eyes: 

Carter  Van  Meter  care  Purser  S.  S.  Canopic  Naples 

Yes. 

HONOR. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IF  Stephen  Lorimer,  far  to  the  north  in  the  safe 
serenity  of  the  old  house  of  South  Figueroa 
Street,  could  have  envisaged  the  three  of  them 
that  day  his  chief  concern  would  not  have  been  for 
their  bodily  danger.     It  would  have  seemed  to  him 
that  the  intangible  cloud  settling  down  over  them  was 
a  more  tragic  and  sinister  thing  than  the  insurrectos 
besieging  them,  than  the  thirst  which  was  cracking 
their  lips  and  swelling  and  blackening  their  tongues. 

He  was  to  remember  and  marvel,  long  afterward, 
that  his  thought  on  that  date  had  tugged  uneasily  to 
ward  them  all  day  and  evening.  Conditions,  so  far 
as  he  knew,  were  favorable;  the  escort  for  the  per 
sonage  would  be  a  stout  one  and  under  his  wing  the 
boy  and  girl  would  be  safe,  and  James  King  was 
waiting  for  them,  spinning  out  his  thread  of  life  until 
they  should  come  to  him.  Nevertheless,  he  found 
himself  acutely  unhappy  regarding  them,  aware  of 
an  urgent  and  instant  need  of  being  with  them. 

They  had  never,  in  all  their  blithe  young  lives, 
199 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


needed  him  so  cruelly.  He  could  not  have  driven  back 
the  bandits,  but  he  could  have  driven  back  the  clouds 
of  doubt  and  misery  and  misunderstanding ;  he  could 
not  have  given  them  water  for  their  parched  throats 
but  he  could  have  given  them  to  drink  of  the  waters 
of  understanding ;  he  could  have  relieved  the  drought 
in  their  wrung  young  hearts.  He  would  have  seen,  as 
only  a  looker-on  could  see,  what  was  happening  to 
them.  He  would  have  yearned  over  Honor,  front 
ing  the  bright  face  of  danger  so  gallantly  but  stunned 
and  crushed  by  the  change  in  Jimsy,  over  Jimsy 
himself,  setting  out  to  do  an  incredibly  stupid,  in 
credibly  noble  deed,  absolutely  convinced  by  the  sight 
of  her  one-word  telegram  that  she  loved  Carter  (and 
humbly  realizing  that  she  might  well  love  Carter,  the 
brilliant  Carter,  better  than  his  unilluminated  self), 
seeing  the  thing  simply  and  objectively  as  he  would 
be  sure  to  do,  deciding  on  his  course  and  pursuing  it 
as  definitely  as  he  would  take  a  football  over  the  line 
for  a  touchdown.  He  would  even  have  yearned  over 
Carter,  at  the  very  moment  when  the  youth  fulfilled 
his  ancient  distrust  of  him.  He  would  have  under 
stood  as  even  Carter  himself  did  not,  by  what  gradual 
and  destructive  processes  he  had  arrived  at  the  point 
of  his  outbreak  to  Jimsy ;  would  have  realized  in  how 
far  his  physical  suffering — infinitely  harder  for  him 

200 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


than  for  the  others — had  broken  down  his  moral 
fiber;  how  utterly  his  very  real  love  for  Honor  had 
engulfed  every  other  thought  and  feeling.  And  he 
would  have  seen,  in  the  last  analysis,  that  Carter  was 
sincere ;  he  had  come  at  last  to  believe  his  own  fabri 
cations  ;  he  honestly  believed  that  Honor's  betrothed 
would  go  the  way  of  all  the  "Wild  Kings";  that 
Honor  would  be  ruining  her  life  in  marrying  him. 

But  Stephen  Lorimer  was  hundreds  and  thousands 
of  miles  away  from  them  that  day  of  their  bitter 
need,  making  tentative  notes  for  a  chapter  on  young 
love  for  his  unborn  book,  listening  to  the  inevitable 
mocking-bird  in  the  Japanese  garden,  waiting  for 
Mildred  Lorimer  to  give  him  his  tea  .  .  .  wearing 
the  latest  of  his  favorites  among  her  gowns.  .  .  . 

Madeline  King  was  spent  with  her  vigil  and  Honor 
had  coaxed  her  to  lie  down  for  an  hour  and  let  her 
take  the  chair  beside  Richard  King's  bed. 

"Very  well,  my  dear.  I'll  rest  for  an  hour.  I'll 
do  it  because  I  know  I  may  want  my  strength  more, 
later  on."  She  seemed  to  have  aged  ten  years  since 
the  day  Honor  had  come  to  El  Pozo,  but  she  came 
of  fighting  blood,  this  English  wife  of  Jimsy's  uncle. 
"I'm  frightfully  sorry  you're  let  in  for  this,  Honor, 
but  it's  no  end  of  a  comfort,  having  you.  Call  me 
if  he  rouses.  I  daresay  I  shan't  really  sleep." 

201 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


Honor  sat  on  beside  him,  fanning  him  until  her 
arm  ached,  resting  it  until  he  stirred  again,  trying  to 
wet  her  dry  lips  with  her  thickened  tongue.  She 
wasn't  thinking ;  she  was  merely  waiting,  standing  it. 
It  was  a  relief  not  to  talk,  but  she  must  talk  when 
she  was  with  the  boys  again ;  it  helped  to  keep  them 
up,  to  keep  an  air  of  normality  about  things. 

Jimsy  King  had  read  the  message  Carter  held  up 
to  him  and  gone  away  without  comment,  and  Carter 
had  stayed  on  in  the  sola.  It  was  almost  an  hour  be 
fore  Jimsy  came  back.  Honor's  stepfather  would 
have  marked  and  marveled  at  the  change  so  brief 
a  little  space  of  time  had  been  able  to  register  in  the 
bonny  boy's  face.  The  flesh  seemed  to  have  paled 
and  receded  and  the  bones  seemed  more  sharply 
modeled;  more  insistent;  and  the  eyes  looked  very 
old  and  at  the  same  time  pitifully  young.  He  was 
very  quiet  and  sure  of  himself. 

"Jimsy,"  said  Carter,  "I  shouldn't  have  told  you, 
now,  but  I  went  off  my  head." 

Jimsy  nodded.  "The  time  doesn't  matter,  Cart'. 
I  just  want  to  ask  you  one  thing,  straight  from  the 
shoulder.  I've  been  thinking  and  thinking  .  .  .  try 
ing  to  take  it  in.  Sometimes  I  seem  to  get  it  for  a 
minute,  that  Skipper  cares  for  you  instead  of  me, 
and  then  it's  gone  again.  All  I  can  seem  to  hang  on 

202 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


to  is  that  telegram."  The  painful  calm  of  his  face 
flickered  and  broke  up  for  an  instant  and  there  was 
an  answering  disturbance  in  Carter's  own.  "I  keep 
seeing  that  ...  all  the  time.  But  there's  no  use 
talking  about  it.  What  I  want  to  ask  you  is  this, 
Cart'  " — he  went  on  slowly  in  his  hoarse  and  rough 
ened  voice — "you  honestly  think  Skipper  is  sticking 
to  me  only  because  she  thinks  it's  the  thing  to  do? 
Because  she  thinks  she  must  keep  her  word  ?" 

Carter  swallowed  hard  and  tried  to  moisten  his 
aching  throat,  and  he  did  not  look  at  his  friend. 
"Is  that  what  you  honestly  believe,  Cart'  ?" 
Carter  brought  his  eyes  back  with  an  effort  and  his 
heart  contracted.     Jimsy  King — Jimsy  King — the 
boy  he  had  envied  and  hated  and  loved  by  turns  all 
these  years;  Jimsy  King,  idolized,  adored  in  the  old 
safe  days — the  old  story  book  days — 

King !     King !    King ! 
K-I-N-G,  KING! 
G-I-N-K,  GINK! 
He's  the  King  Gink! 
He's  the  King  Gink! 
He's  the  King  Gink! 
K-I-N-G,  King!    KING! 

The  Jimsy  King,  the  young  prince  who  had  had 
203 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


everything  that  all  the  wealth  of  All  Baba's  cave 
couldn't  compass  for  Carter  Van  Meter  .  .  .  stand 
ing  here  before  him  now,  his  face  drained  of  its  color 
and  joy,  begging  him  for  a  hope.  There  was  a  long 
moment  when  he  hesitated,  when  the  forces  within 
him  fought  breathlessly  and  without  quarter,  but — 
long  ago  Stephen  Lorimer  had  said  of  him — "there's 
nothing  frail  *about  his  disposition  .  .  .  his  will 
doesnt  lim\p."  He  wrenched  his  gaze  away  before 
he  answered,  but  he  answered  steadily. 

"That  is  what  I  believe." 

Jimsy  was  visibly  and  laboriously  working  it  out. 
^'Then,  she's  only  sticking  to  me  because  she  thinks 
I'm  worth  saving.  If  she  thought  I  was  a  regular 
"*Wild  King/  if  she  believed  what  her  mother  and  a 
lot  of  other  people  have  always  believed,  she'd  let 
go  of  me." 

"I  believe  she  would,"  said  Carter. 

"Then,"  said  Jimsy  King,  "it's  really  pretty 
simple.  She's  only  got  to  realize — to  see — that  I'm 
not  worth  hanging  on  to;  that  it's  too  late.  That's 
all." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

He  walked  over  to  the  little  table  and  picked  up 
the  decanter  of  whisky  and  looked  at  it,  and  the  scorn 
and  loathing  in  his  ravaged  young  face  were  things 

204 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


to  marvel  at,  but  Honor  Carmody,  coming  into  the 
room  at  that  moment,  could  not  see  his  expression. 
His  back  was  toward  her  and  she  saw  the  decanter 
in  his  hand. 

"Jimsy!"  She  said  it  very  low,  catching  her 
breath. 

His  first  motion  was  to  put  it  down  but  instead  he 
held  it  up  to  the  fast  fading  light  at  the  window  and 
grinned.  "It's  makin'  faces  at  me,  Skipper !" 

"Jimsy"  she  said  again,  and  this  time  he  put 
it  down. 

Honor  began  hastily  to  talk.  "Bo  you  think  Juan 
will  try  to  come  back,  or  will  he  wait  and  come  with 
the  soldiers?" 

"He'll  come  back,"  said  Jimsy  with  conviction. 
"He  must  have  found  the  wires  down  at  the  first 
place  he  tried,  or  he'd  have  been  here  before  this. 
Yes — as  soon  as  he's  got  his  message  through,  he'll 
come  back  to  us.  I  hope  to  God  he  brings  water." 

"But  did  he  realize  about  the  well  ?  He  got  away 
at  the  very  first,  you  know,  and  they  weren't  holding 
the  well,  then." 

"He'll  have  his  own  canteen,  won't  he  ?"  said  Jimsy 
crossly. 

Honor's  eyes  mothered  him.  "Mrs.  King  really 
slept,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "She  said  she  had  a  good 

305 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


nap,  and  dreamed !"  She  sat  down  in  a  low  chair  and 
made  herself  relax  comfortably;  only  her  eyes  were 
tense.  She  never  did  fussy  things  with  her  hands, 
Honor  Carmody;  no  one  had  ever  seen  her  with  a 
needle  or  a  crochet  hook.  She  was  either  doing 
things,  vital,  definite  things  which  required  motion, 
or  she  was  still,  and  she  rested  people  who  were  near 
her.  "Well,  he'll  be  here  soon  then/'  she  said  con 
tentedly.  "And  so  will  the  soldiers.  Our  Big  Boss 
will  have  us  on  his  mind,  Jimsy.  He'll  figure  out 
some  way  to  help  us.  Just  think — in  another  day — 
perhaps  in  another  hour,  this  will  all  be  over,  like  a 
nightmare,  and  we'll  be  back  to  regular  living  again. 
And  won't  we  be  glad  that  we  all  stood  it  so  decent 
ly?'7  It  was  a  stiff,  small  smile  with  her  cracked 
lips  but  a  stout  one.  "You  know,  I'm  pretty  proud 
of  all  of  us!  And  won't  Stepper  be  proud  of  us? 
And  your  dad,  Jimsy,  and  your  mother,  Cartie!" 
Her  kind  eyes  warmed.  "I'm  glad  she  hasn't  had 
to  know  about  it  until  we're  all  safe  again."  She 
was  so  hoarse  that  she  had  to  stop  and  rest  and  she 
looked  hopefully  from  one  to  the  other,  clearly  ex 
pecting  them  to  take  up  the  burden  of  talk.  But 
they  were  silent  and  presently  she  went  on  again. 
"You  know,  boys,  it's  like  being  in  a  book  or  a 
play,  isn't  it?  We're — characters — now,  not  just 

206 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


plain  people!  I  suppose  I'm  the  leading  lady 
(though  Mrs.  King's  the  real  heroine)  and  we've  got 
two  heroes  and  no  villain.  The  insurrectos  are  the 
villain — the  villain  in  hunches."  Suddenly  she  sat 
forward  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  brightening  and  a  little 
color  flooding  her  face.  "Boys,  it's  our  song  come 
true !  Now  I  know  why  I  always  got  so  thrilled  over 
that  second  verse, — even  the  first  time  Stepper  read  it 
to  us, — remember  how  it  just  bowled  me  over  ?  And 
it  seemed  so  remote  from  anything  that  could  touch 
our  lives, — yet  here  we  are,  in  just  such  a  tight 
place."  They  were  listening  now.  "There  isn't  any 
desert  or  regiment  or  gatling,  and  Mr.  King  isn't 
dead,  only  dreadfully  hurt,  but  it  fits,  just  the  same ! 
We've  got  this  thirst  to  stand  .  .  .  and  it's  a  good 
deal,  isn't  it  ?  Those  insurrectos  down  there, — plan 
ning  we  don't  know  what,  perhaps  to  rush  the  house 
any  moment — 

The  River  of  Death  has  brimmed  his  banks ; 
And  England's  far,  and  Honor's  a  name — 

That  means  to  us  that  L.  A.  is  far,  and  South  Figue- 
roa  Street  ...  all  the  safe  happy  things  that  didn't 

wonderful  then  .  .  ." 

"  'Honor's  a  name,'  "  said  Jimsy  under  his  breath. 
207 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"Oh,"  said  the  girl,  "I  never  noticed  that  before! 
Isn't  that  funny?     Well— 
The  voice  of  a  school  boy  rallies  the  ranks ! 

That  fits !  And  won't  we  be  thankful  all  our  lives — 
all  our  snug,  safe,  prosy  lives — that  we  were  sporting 
now  ? —  That  we  all  played  the  game  ?"  Her  eyes 
were  on  Jimsy,  reassuring  him,  staying  him.  "When 
this  is  all  over " 

He  cut  roughly  into  her  sentence.  "Oh,  for  God's 
sake,  Skipper,  let's  not  talk!" 

Again  he  had  to  bear  the  mothering  of  her  under 
standing  eyes.  "All  right,  Jimsy.  We  won't  talk, 
then.  We'll  sit  here  together" — she  changed  to  the 
chair  nearest  his  and  put  her  hand  on  his  arm — "and 
wait  for  Juan  and " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "I  wish  you'd  leave  me 
alone!"  he  said.  "I  wish  you'd  go  upstairs  and  stay 
with  Aunt  Maddy  and  Uncle  Rich'.  I  want  to  be 
by  myself." 

She  did  not  stir.  "I  think  I'll  stay  with  you, 
Jimsy." 

His  voice  was  ugly  now.  "When  I  don't  want 
you  ?  When  I  tell  you  I'd  rather  be  alone  ?" 

Honor  was  still  for  a  long  moment.  She  rose  and 
208 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


went  to  the  door  but  she  turned  to  look  at  him,  a 
steady,  intent  scrutiny.  "All  right,  Jimsy.  I'll  go. 
I'll  leave  you  alone.  I'll  leave  you  alone  because — 
I  know  I  can  leave  you  alone."  She  seemed  to  have- 
forgotten  Carter's  presence.  She  held  up  the  hand 
which  wore  the  old  Italian  ring  with  the  hidden  blue 
stone  of  constancy.  "I'm  'holding  hard,'  Jimsy." 

Soon  after  dark  Yaqui  Juan  came.  He  had  been 
waiting  for  three  hours,  trying  to  get  past  the  sen 
tries;  it  had  been  impossible  while  there  was  any 
light.  He  was  footsore  and  weary  and  had  only  a 
little  water  in  his  canteen,  but  he  had  found  the 
telephone  wires  still  up  at  the  second  hacienda,  the 
owner  had  got  the  message  off  for  him,  and  help  was 
assuredly  on  the  way  to  them.  There  was  the  off 
chance,  of  course,  that  the  soldiers  might  be  held 
up  by  another  wing  of  the  insurredos,  but  there  was- 
every  reason  to  hope  for  their  arrival  next  day.  Jimsy 
King  sent  the  Yaqui  up  to  Honor  with  the  canteen, 
and  the  Indian  returned  to  say  that  the  Sefiorita  had 
not  touched  one  drop  but  had  given  it  to  the  master. 

Carter  dragged  himself  away  to  his  room  and  Jimsy 
and  Yaqui  Juan  talked  long  together  in  the  quiet 
sola.  It  was  a  cramped  and  halting  conversation 
with  the  Indian's  scant  English  and  the  American's 
halting  Spanish ;  sometimes  they  were  unable  to  un- 

209 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


derstand  each  other,  but  they  came  at  last  to  some 
sort  of  agreement,  though  Juan  shook  his  head 
mutinously  again  and  again,  murmuring —  "No,  no! 
Senor  Don  Diego!  No!" 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  Jimsy  called  them 
all  down  into  the  sola.  They  came,  wondering,  one 
by  one,  Carter,  Mrs.  King, — Richard  King  had 
fallen  asleep  after  his  half  dozen  swallows  of  water — 
and  Honor,  and  Josita,  her  head  muffled  in  her 
rebozo,  her  brown  fingers  busy  with  her  beads. 

Jimsy  King  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  standing  insecurely,  his  legs  far  apart,  the  de 
canter  in  his  hand,  the  decanter  which  had  been  more 
than  half  full  when  Honor  left  the  room  and  had 
now  less  than  an  inch  of  liquor  in  it.  Yaqui  Juan, 
his  face  sullen,  his  eyes  black  and  bitter,  crouched 
on  the  floor,  his  arms  about  his  knees. 

Honor  did  not  speak  at  all.  She  just  stood  still, 
looking  at  Jimsy  until  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  all 
eyes.  "It  comes  so  suddenly/' — Carter  had  told  her 
— "like  the  boa  constrictor's  hunger  .  .  .  and  then 
he  was  just — an  appetite." 

"Ladies'n  gem'mum,"  said  Jimsy,  thickly,  "goin* 
shing  you  HP  song !"  Then,  in  his  hoarse  and  baffled 
voice  he  sang  Stanford's  giddy  old  saga,  "The  Son 
of  a  Gambolier." 

210 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


They  all  stiffened  with  horror  and  disgust.  Mrs. 
King  wept  and  Josita  mumbled  a  frightened  prayer, 
and  Carter,  red  and  vehement,  went  to  him  and  tried 
to  take  the  decanter  away  from  him.  Only  Honor 
Carmody  made  no  sign. 

I'm  a  son  of  a  son  of  a  son  of  a  gun  of  a  son  of  a 
Gambolier, 

sang  Jimsy  King.    He  looked  at  every  one  but  Honor. 

Like    every    honest    fellow,    I    love    my    lager 
beer 

— "And  my  'skee!"  he  patted  the  decanter. 

Madeline  King  put  her  arms  about  Honor.  "Come 
away,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "Come  upstairs." 

"No,"  Jimsy  protested.  "Don'  go  'way.  Got 
somep'n  tell  you.  Shee  this  fool  Injun  here  ?  Know 
wha'  he's  goin'  do  ?  Goin'  slide  out'n  creep  down  to 
ol'  well.  Says  insur — insur-rectos  all  pretty  drunk 
now  .  .  .  pretty  sleepy.  .  .  .  Fool  Injun's  goin' 
take  three — four — 'leven  canteens  ...  bring  water 
back  for  you.  "Not  f  me!  /  got  somep'n  better. 
'Sides,  he'll  get  killed  .  .  .  nice'n  dead  .  .  .  fancy 
dead  .  .  .  cut  ears  off  ...  cut  tongue  out  firs' ! 
Not  f  me!  I'm  goin'  sleep  pret'  soon.  Firs'  I'll 

211 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


ahing  you  liF  more!"    Again  the  rasping  travesty  of 
melody : 

Some  die  of  drinkin'  whisky, 
Some  die  of  drinkin'  beer! 
Some  die  of  diabetes, 
An'  some 

"Shut  up,  you  drunken  fool!"  said  Carter,  furi 
ously. 

"Oh,"  said  Jimsy,  blinking  his  eyes  rapidly,  bow 
ing  deeply.  "Ladies  present.  I  shee.  My  mishtake. 
My  mishtake,  ladies!  Well,  guesh  I  go  sleep  now. 
Come  on.  Yac?,  put  me  to  bed  'fore  you  go.  Give 
you  HP  treat.  All  work'n  no  play  makes  Yac'  a  dull 
boy !"  He  roared  over  his  own  wit.  The  Indian,  his 
face  impassive,  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  now  Jimsy 
cast  himself  into  his  arms  and  insisted  on  kissing  him 
good-night,  clinging  all  the  while  to  the  decanter  with 
its  half  inch  of  whisky. 

Carter  wrenched  it  away  from  him.  "You'll  kill 
yourself,"  he  said,  in  cold  disgust. 

"Well,"  said  his  friend,  reasonably,  "ishn't  that 
the  big  idea  ?  Wouldn'  you  razzer  drink  yourself  to 
death'n  die  of  thirst?" 

They  were  making  for  the  door  now  in  a  zigzag 
course,  and  when  they  passed  Honor,  Jimsy  stayed 

212 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


their  progress.  He  held  out  his  hand  and  spoke  to 
her,  but  he  did  not  meet  her  eyes.  "Gimme  ring," 
he  said,  crossly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Honor. 

"Gimme  back  ring  .  .  .  busted  word  .  .  .busted 
engagement  .  .  .  want  ring  anyway  .  .  .  maybe 
nozzer  girl  .  .  .  you  can't  tell!"  His  hoarse  voice 
rose  querulously.  "Gimme  ring,  I  shay !" 

Honor  shrank  back  from  him  against  Mrs.  King. 
"Jimsy,"  she  said,  "when  the  boy  that  gave  me  this 
ring  comes  and  asks  me  for  it,  he  can  have  it.  You 
can't!" 

His  legs  seemed  to  give  way  beneath  him,  at  that, 
and  Yaqui  Juan  half  led,  half  dragged  him  out  of 
the  room. 

Mrs.  King  wept  again  but  Honor's  eyes  were  dry. 
Carter  started  to  speak  to  her  but  she  stopped  him. 
"Please,  Carter  ...  I  can't  .  .  .  talk.  I  think 
I'd  like  to  be  alone." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  please  come  up  with  me,"  Mrs.  King 
begged,  "it's  so  cold  here,  and " 

"I  have  to  be  alone,"  said  Honor  in  her  worn 
voice. 

"Then  you  must  have  this,"  said  the  older  woman, 
finding  comfort  in  wrapping  her  in  her  own  serape. 
It  was  a  gay  thing,  striped  in  red  and  white  and 

213 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


green,  the  Mexican  colors ;  it  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
made  to  wear  in  happy  days. 

They  went  away  and  left  her  alone  in  the  sola. 
She  didn't  know  how  long  she  had  sat  there  when  she 
saw  a  muffled  figure  crawling  across  the  veranda. 
She  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out,  nodding  to  the 
peon  on  guard  there,  leaning  on  his  gun.  "Juan?" 
she  called  softly. 

The  crouching,  cringing  figure  hesitated.  "Si," 
came  the  soft  whisper.  He  kept  his  head  shrouded. 
She  knew  that  he  was  sick  with  shame  for  the  lad 
he  had  worshiped;  he  did  not  want  to  meet  her 
gaze.  She  could  understand  that.  It  did  not  seem 
to  her  that  she  could  ever  meet  any  one's  eyes  again — 
kind  Mrs.  King's,  Carter's — her  dear  Stepper's.  Sud 
denly  it  came  to  her  with  a  positive  sense  of  relief 
and  escape  that  perhaps  there  would  be  no  need  for 
facing  any  one  after  to-night.  .  .  .  Perhaps  this  was 
to  be  the  last  night  of  all  nights.  It  might  well  be, 
when  Jimsy  King  slept  in  a  drunken  stupor  and  a 
Yaqui  Indian  slave  went  out  with  his  life  in  his 
hands  to  help  them.  She  crossed  the  veranda  and 
leaned  down  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  covered  head. 
Her  throat  was  so  swollen  now  that  she  could  hardly 
make  herself  heard.  " Tu  es  a/rrdgo  leal,  Jucm,"  she 

214 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


said.     "Good  friend;  good  friend!"     Then  in  her 
careful  Spanish— "Go  with  God !" 

He  had  been  always  an  impassive  creature,  Yaqui 
Juan,  his  own  personal  sufferings  added  to  the  native 
stoicism  of  his  race,  but  he  made  an  odd,  smothered 
sound  now,  and  caught  up  the  trailing  end  of  her 
bright  serape  and  pressed  his  face  against  it  for  an 
instant.  Then  he  crept  away  into  the  soft  blackness 
of  the  tropic  night  and  Honor  went  back  into  the 
empty  sala.  She  wished  that  she  had  seen  his  face ; 
she  was  mournfully  sure  she  would  never  see  it 
again.  It  did  not  seem  humanly  possible  for  any 
one  to  go  into  the  very  midst  of  their  besiegers  en 
camped  about  the  well,  fill  the  canteens  and  return 
alive,  but  it  was  a  gallant  and  splendid  try,  and  she 
would  have  liked  a  memory  of  his  grave  face.  It 
would  have  blotted  out  the  look  of  Jimsy  King's  face, 
singing  his  tipsy  song.  She  thought  she  would  keep 
on  seeing  that  as  long  as  she  lived,  and  that  made 
it  less  terrible  to  think  that  she  might  not  live  many 
more  hours. 


CHAPTEE  XV 


r  I  ~^HEY  would  not  leave  her  alone.  Carter 
I  came  to  stay  with  her  and  she  sent  him 
away,  and  then  Madeline  King  came,  her 
very  blue  eyes  red  rimmed  and  deep  with  understand 
ing,  but  Honor  could  not  talk  with  her  nor  listen  to 
her.  She  went  away,  shaking  her  head,  and  Josita 
came  in  her  place.  Honor  did  not  mind  the  little 
Mexican  serving  woman.  She  did  not  try  to  talk 
to  her.  She  just  crouched  on  the  floor  at  her  feet 
and  prayers  slipped  from  her  tongue  and  her  fingers : 

Padre  Nuestra  qui  estds  en  los  cielos — 
and  presently : 

Santa  Maria — 

Honor  found  herself  listening  a  little  scornfully. 
Was  there  indeed  a  Father  in  the  heavens  or  any 
where  else  who  concerned  Himself  about  things  like 
this  ?  Josita  seemed  to  think  so.  She  was  in  terror, 

216 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


but  site  was  clinging  to  something  .  .  .  some 
where.  .  .  .  Honor  decided  that  she  did  not  mind 
the  murmur  of  her  voice;  she  could  go  on  with  her 
thinking  just  the  same.  Jimsy.  Jimsy  King — 
Jimsy — "Wild" — King.  What  was  she  going  to 
do  ?'  What  had  she  promised  Stepper  that  day  on  the 
way  to  the  train?  It  all  came  back  to  her  like  a 
scene  on  the  screen — the  busy  streets — the  feel  of  the 
wheel  in  her  hands  again — Stepper's  slow  voice — 
"But,  if  the  worst  should  be  true,  if  the  boy  really 
has  gone  to  pieces,  you  won't  marry  him  ?"  And  her 
own  words — "No;  if  Jimsy  should  be — like  his 
father — I  wouldn't  marry  him,  Stepper.  There 
shouldn't  be  any  more  'Wild  Kings.'  " 

That  was  her  promise  to  her  stepfather,  her  best 
friend.  But  what  had  been  her  promise  to  Jimsy, 
that  day  on  the  shore  below  the  Malibou  Ranch  when 
they  sat  in  the  little  pocket  of  rocks  and  sand  and 
sun,  and  he  had  given  her  the  ring  with  the  clasped 
hands?  Hadn't  she  said — "I  do  believe  you,  Jim 
sy.  I'll  never  stop  believing  you!"  Yes,  but  how 
was  she  to  go  on  believing  that  he  would  not  do  the 
thing  she  saw  him  do?  How  compass  that?  Her 
love  and  loyalty  began  to  fling  themselves  against 
that  solid  wall  of  ugly  fact  and  to  fall  back,  bruised, 
breathless. 

217 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


Jimsy  King  of  the  hard  muscles  and  winged  heels, 
the  essence  of  strength  and  sunny  power;  Jimsy 
King,  collapsed  in  the  arms  of  Yaqui  Juan,  failing 
her  in  the  hour  of  her  direst  need.  Jimsy,  her  lover, 
who  had  promised  her  she  should  never  go  alive  into 
those  dark  and  terrible  hands  .  .  .  Jimsy,  who  could 
not  lift  a  finger  now  to  defend  her,  or  to  put  her  be 
yond  their  grasp.  It  became  intolerable  to  sit  still. 
She  sprang  up  and  began  to  walk  swiftly  from  wall 
to  wall  of  the  big  room,  her  heels  tapping  sharply 
on  the  smooth  red  tiles.  Josita  lifted  mournful  eyes 
to  stare  at  her  for  an  instant  and  then  returned  to 
her  beads.  Honor  paused  and  looked  out  of  the  win 
dow.  She  could  see  nothing  through  the  inky  black-v 
ness.  Perhaps  Yaqui  Juan  was  creeping  back  to 
them  now,  the  canteens  of  precious  water  hung  about 
his  neck, — and  perhaps  he  was  dead.  There  had  been 
no  shots,  but  they  would  not  necessarily  shoot  him. 
There  were  other  .  .  .  awfuller  ways.  And  Jimsy 
King  was  asleep.  What  would  he  be  like  when  he 
wakened,  when  he  came  to  himself  again?  Could 
he  ever  face  her  ?  Would  he  live  ?  .  .  .  And  suppose 
she  cast  him  off, — then,  what  ?  She  would  go  back  to 
Italy,  to  the  mountainous  Signorina.  She  would  em 
brace  her  warmly  and  there  would  emanate  from  her 
the  faint  odor  of  expensive  soap  and  rare  and  costly 

218 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


scents,  and  she  would  pat  her  with  a  puffy  hand  and 
say — "So,  my  good  small  one?  The  sun  has  set, 
no?  Ah,  then,  it  does  not  signify  whether  one  feel 
joy  or  sorrow,  so  long  as  one  feels.  To  feel  .  .  .  that 
is  to  live,  and  to  live  is  to  sing !"  And  she  would  go 
to  work  again,  and  sing  in  concert,  and  take  the  place 
offered  to  her  in  the  opera.  And  some  day,  when  she 
went  for  a  holiday  to  Switzerland  (she  supposed  she 
would  still  go  on  holidays;  people  did,  no  matter 
what  had  happened  to  them)  she  would  meet  Ethel 
Brace-Drummond,  hale  and  frank  as  the  wind  off 
the  snow,  and  she  would  say — "But  where's  your 
boy?  I  say,  you  haven't  thrown  him  over,  have 
you?" 

Well,  could  you  throw  over  what  fell  away  from 
you?  Could  you?  She  realized  that  she  was  grip 
ping  the  old  ring  with  the  thumb  and  fingers  of  her 
right  hand,  literally  "holding  hard."  Was  this  what 
James  King  had  meant  ?  Had  Jeanie  King,  Jimsy's 
firm-chinned  Scotch  mother  who  so  nearly  saved  her 
man,  had  she  held  on  in  times  like  this  ?  Surely  no 
"Wild  King"  had  ever  failed  his  woman  as  Jimsy 
had  failed  her,  in  the  face  of  such  hideous  danger. 
But  did  that  absolve  her?  After  all  (her  love  and 
loyalty  flung  themselves  again  against  the  wall  and 
it  seemed  to  give,  to  sway)  was  it  Jimsy  who  had 

219 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


failed  her  ?  Wasn't  it  the  taint  in  his  blood,  the  dead 
hands  reaching  up  out  of  the  grave,  the  cruel  cer 
tainty  that  had  hemmed  him  in  all  his  days, — the  bit 
ter  man-made  law  that  he  must  follow  in  the  un 
steady  footsteps  of  his  forbears  ? 

It  wasn't  Jimsy!  Not  himself;  not  the  real  boy, 
not  the  real  man.  It  was  the  pitiful  counterpart  of 
him.  The  real  Jimsy  was  there,  underneath,  buried 
for  the  moment, — buried  forever  unless  she  stood  by ! 
(The  wall  was  swaying  now,  giving  way,  crumbling.) 
Her  pride  in  him  was  gone,  perhaps,  and  something 
of  her  triumphant  faith,  but  her  loyalty  was  there 
and  her  love  was  there,  bruised  and  battered  and 
breathless ;  not  the  rosy,  untried,  laughing  love  of  that 
far-away  day  in  the  sand  and  sun;  a  grave  love, 
scarred,  weary,  argus-eyed.  (The  wall  was  down 
now,  a  heap  of  stones  and  mortar.)  She  went  up 
stairs  to  Jimsy's  room  and  knocked  on  the  door. 
There  was  no  answer.  She  knocked  again,  and  after 
an  instant  she  tried  to  open  it.  It  was  locked,  and 
she  could  not  rouse  him,  and  a  sense  of  bodily  sick 
ness  overcame  her  for  the  moment. 

Madeline  King  came  out  of  her  husband's  room 
and  hurried  to  her.  "Ah,  I  wouldn't,  my  dear,"  she 
said.  "Wait  until  he — wait  a  little  while."  She  put 
her  arm  about  her  and  pulled  her  gently  away. 

220 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"I'll  wait,"  said  Honor  in  her  rasping  whisper. 
"I'll  wait  for  him,  no  matter  how  long  it  is." 

The  Englishwoman's  eyes  filled.  "My  dear !"  she 
said.  "Do  you  mind  sitting  with  Richard  a  few  mo 
ments?  I  find  it  steadies  me  to  move  about  a  bit." 

"Of  course  I'll  sit  with  him,"  said  Honor,  docilely, 
"but  I'll  always  be  waiting  for  Jimsy."  She  sat 
down  beside  Richard  King  and  took  up  the  fan. 

"He's  been  better  ever  since  that  bit  of  water,"  said 
his  wife,  thankfully.  "And  Juan  will  fetch  us  more ! 
Good  soul !  If  ever  we  come  out  of  this,  Rich'  must 
do  something  very  splendid  for  him." 

Carter  went  down  into  the  sola.  Honor  had  asked 
him  to  leave  her,  but  he  found  that  he  could  not 
stay  away  from  her;  the  remembrance  of  her  eyes 
when  she  looked  at  Jimsy  was  intolerable  in  the 
loneliness  of  his  own  room.  The  big  living  room  was 
empty  but  he  supposed  Honor  would  be  back  present 
ly,  and  he  sat  down  in  an  easy  chair  and  leaned  his 
head  back  and  stared  at  the  ceiling.  He  had  arrived, 
very  nearly,  at  the  end  of  his  endurance.  He  knew 
it  himself  and  he  was  husbanding  his  failing  strength 
as  best  he  could.  All  his  life,  at  times  of  illness  or 
stress,  he  had  been  subject  to  fainting  fits;  miracu 
lously,  in  these  dreadful  days,  he  had  not  fainted 
once,  but  now  waves  were  rising  about  him,  almost 

221 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


submerging  him.  If  the  Indian  came  soon  with  the 
water  ...  if  he  could  once  drink  his  fill  ...  if 
he  could  drink  even  a  few  drops  ...  he  could  hold 
out.  But  the  Indian  had  been  gone  for  more  than 
an  hour,  and  there  was  grave  doubt  of  his  ever  com 
ing  back. 

His  eyes,  skimming  the  ceiling,  dropped  to  the 
shelves  of  books  which  ran  about  the  room  and  rose 
almost  to  meet  it.  They  came  to  a  startled  halt  on 
a  vase  of  ferns  on  a  high  shelf.  A  vase  of  ferns. 
There  must  have  been  water  in  it.  Perhaps  there 
was  water  in  it  now!  He  was  so  weak  that  it  was  a 
tremendous  effort  for  him  to  drag  himself  out  of  his 
chair  and  across  the  room,  to  climb  up  on  the  book 
ladder  and  reach  for  it.  He  grew  so  dizzy  that  it 
seemed  as  if  he  must  drop  it.  He  shook  it.  Water! 
He  lifted  out  the  ferns  and  looked.  It  was  almost 
full.  He  stood  there  with  it  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  on 
the  doors.  He  wanted  with  all  his  heart  to  call 
Honor,  to  share  it.  His  heart  and  his  mind  wanted 
to  call  her,  but  his  hands  lifted  the  vase  to  his  dry 
lips  and  he  drank  in  great  gulps.  He  stopped  him 
self  before  he  was  half  satisfied.  He  was  equal  to 
that.  Then  he  put  the  ferns  back  in  the  vase  and  the 
vase  back  on  the  shelf  and  went  into  the  hall  and 
called  upstairs  to  her. 

222 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


Honor  came  at  once.  "Oh,  Carter,  has  Juan 
come?" 

"No,  not  yet!  But  I  think— I  hope— I've  made 
a  discovery!  Look!"  He  pointed  to  the  vase. 

She  caught  her  breath.  "There  might  be  water  in 
it?" 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  there  is."  Again,  more  steadily 
this  time,  he  mounted  the  little  sliding  book  ladder 
and  reached  for  the  vase,  and  Honor  stood  watching 
him  with  wide  eyes,  her  cracked  lips  parted. 

"Water?"  she  whispered. 

He  nodded  solemnly,  shaking  the  tall  vase  for  her 
to  hear  the  heartening  sound  of  it.  When  he  stood 
on  the  floor  he  held  it  toward  her.  "You  first, 
Honor." 

"No."  She  was  trembling.  "We'll  pour  it  out 
into  a  pitcher.  If  there's  enough  to  divide,  we'll  all 
have  some.  If  there's  just  a  little,  we'll  give  it  to 
Mr.  King."  She  went  away,  walking  a  little  un 
steadily,  putting  out  a  hand  here  and  there  against 
the  wall  or  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  in  a  moment  she 
came  back  with  a  tall  glass  pitcher.  "Careful,  Cartie 
.  .  .  mustn't  spill  a  drop.  .  .  ." 

There  was  less  than  a  cupful  of  dark,  stale  water, 
with  bits  of  fern  fronds  floating  in  it. 

"Only  enough  for  him,"  said  Honor,  her  chin 
223 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


quivering.  "Oh,  Cartie,  I'm  so  thirsty  ...  so  crazy 
thirsty  .  .  ." 

"You  must  take  it  yourself,"  said  Carter,  sternly. 
"Every  drop."  He  held  the  pitcher  up  to  her. 

Honor  hesitated.  "Cartie,  I  couldn't  trust  myself 
to  drink  it  out  of  the  pitcher  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  .  .  . 
but  I'll  pour  out  ahout  two  teaspoonfuls  for  each  of 
us.  .  .  ."  She  poured  an  inch  of  water  into  a  tiny 
glass.  "You  first,  Carter." 

"No,"  said  Carter,  "I'm  not  going  to  touch  it.  It's 
for  you  and  the  Kings." 

"Carter!  You're  wonderful!"  She  drank  her 
pitiful  portion  in  three  sips.  "There  .  .  .  now  you, 
please,  Cartie!  Just  one  swallow!" 

But  Carter  shook  his  head.  "No ;  I  don't  need  it. 
Shall  I  take  this  to  Mrs.  King?" 

"Yes."    Her  sad  eyes  knighted  him. 

Carter  took  the  pitcher  of  water  to  Mrs.  King  with 
out  touching  a  drop  of  it  and  helped  her  to  strain  the 
fern  hits  out  of  it  through  a  handkerchief  hefore  she 
began  to  give  it  to  her  husband  in  spoonfuls.  With 
the  first  sip  he  ceased  his  uneasy  murmuring  and  she 
smiled  up  at  the  boy.  "Thank  you,  Carter.  It's  very 
splendid  of  you.  Won't  you  take  a  sip  for  yourself  ?" 

Carter  said  he  did  not  need  it 

"You  do  look  fresher,  really.  You've  stood  this 
224 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


thing  extraordinarily  well.     Did  you  give  Honor 
some?" 

"She  would  take  only  a  taste." 

Madeline  King's  eyes  filled.  "This  is  a  black 
night  for  her,  Carter.  The  thirst — and  the  insur- 
rectos — are  the  least  of  it  for  Honor." 

Carter's  eyes  were  bleak.  "But  she  had  to  know 
it  some  time.  She  had  to  find  it  out,  sooner  or  later. 
She  couldn't  have  gone  on  with  it,  Mrs.  King." 

She  sighed.  "I  never  was  so  astounded,  so  dis 
appointed  in  all  my  life.  One  simply  cannot  take  it 
in.  He  has  been  so  absolutely  steady  ever  since  he 
came  down, — and  so  fine  all  through  this  trouble! 
And  to  fail  us  now,  when  we  need  him  so, — with 
Honor  in  such  danger — "  She  gave  her  husband 
the  last  of  the  water  and  then  laid  on  his  forehead 
the  damp  handkerchief  through  which  she  had 
strained  it.  "It  will  break  his  uncle's  heart.  He  was 
no  end  proud  of  him." 

"She  had  to  know  it  some  time,"  said  Carter,  stub 
bornly.  "Is  there  anything  I  can  do,  Mrs.  King?" 

"Nothing,  Carter." 

"Then  I'll  go  back  to  Honor." 

Something  in  his  expression,  in  the  way  his  dry 
lips  said  it,  made  the  woman  smile  pityingly. 
"Carter,  I — I'm  frightfully  sorry  for  you,  too." 

225 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


He  drew  himself  up  with  something  of  the  old 
concealing  pride.  "I'm  quite  all  right,  thank  you." 

She  was  not  rebuffed.  "You  are  quite  all 
wretched,"  she  said,  "you  poor  lad,  and  I'm  no  end 
sorry,  but — Carter,  don't  think  this  ill  wind  of  Jim- 
sy's  will  blow  you  any  good." 

He  flushed  hotly  through  his  strained  pallor. 

"Ah,"  said  the  Englishwoman,  gently,  "you  were 
counting  on  it  It's  no  good,  Carter.  It's  no  good. 
Not  with  Honor  Carmody." 

Carter  did  not  answer  her  in  words  but  there  was 
angry  denial  in  the  tilt  of  his  head  as  he  limped  away, 
and  she  looked  after  him  sadly. 

He  found  Honor  limply  relaxed  in  a  long  wicker 
chair.  "Carter,"  she  whispered,  "I  wish  I'd  asked 
you  to  give  Jimsy  a  taste  of  that  water." 

"You  think  he  deserves  it?"  He  couldn't  keep 
the  sneer  out  of  his  voice. 

"No,"  she  answered  him  honestly.  "I  don't  think 
he  deserves  it  ...  but  he  needs  it." 

The  words  repeated  themselves  over  and  over  in 
the  other's  mind.  He  didn't  deserve  it,  but  he  needed 
it.  That  was  the  way — the  weak,  sentimental, 
womanish  way  in  which  she  would  reason  it  out 
about  herself,  he  supposed  .  .  .  Jimsy  King  didn't 
deserve  her,  but  he  needed  her.  He  was  deep  in  his 

226 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


bitter  reflections  when  he  realized  that  she  was  speak 
ing  to  him. 

"Cartie,  I  must  tell  you  how  fine  I  think  you  are ! 
You  were  splendid  .  .  .  about  the  water  .  .  .  not 
taking  any  .  .  .  when  I  know  how  you're  suffering." 
She  had  to  speak  slowly,  and  if  Stephen  Lorimer  had 
stood  out  in  the  hall  he  would  never  have  recognized 
his  Top  Step's  voice.  "Of  course  we  believe  help  is 
coming  .  .  .  that  we'll  be  safe  in  a  few  hours  .  .  . 
but  because  we  may  not  be  ...  this  is  the  time  for 
telling  the  truth,  isn't  it,  Carter?  I  want  to  tell 
you  .  .  .  how  I  respect  you.  .  .  .  Once  I  said  you 
were  weak,  when  I  was  angry  at  you.  .  .  .  But  now 
I  know  you're  strong  .  .  .  stronger  than — Jimsy 
.  .  .  with  the  best  kind  of  strength.  I  want  you  to 
know  that  I  know  that,  Carty." 

"Honor!"  The  truth  and  the  lie  spun  round  and 
round  in  his  aching  head;  he  was  stronger  than 
Jimsy  King;  he  hadn't  made  a  drunken  beast  of 
himself;  suppose  he  had  taken  the  first  sip  of  the 
water? — He  hadn't  taken  it  all.  He  was  a  better 
man  than  Jimsy  King.  He  made  a  swift  motion  to 
ward  her,  saying  her  name  brokenly  in  his  choked 
voice,  but  he  crumpled  suddenly  and  slid  from  his 
chair  to  the  floor  and  was  still. 

Honor  flew  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  called  Mrs. 
227 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


King.     "Carter  lias  fainted!     Will  you  help  me?" 

Mrs.  King  called  the  Mexican  guard  in  from  the 
porch  to  lift  him  to  the  couch,  and  she  and  the  girl 
fanned  him  and  chafed  his  thin  wrists.  When  he 
came  to  himself  he  was  intensely  chagrined.  "I'm 
all  right,"  he  said  impatiently,  sitting  up.  "I  wish 
you  wouldn't  bother." 

"Lie  still  for  a  bit,"  said  Mrs.  King.  "You've  had 
a  nasty  faint." 

Honor  saw  his  painful  flush.  "Cartie,  it's  no  won 
der  you  fainted, — I  feel  as  if  I  might,  any  minute. 
And  I  did  nearly  faint  once,  didn't  I,  Mrs.  King? 
The  day  I  arrived  here — remember?"  She  remem 
bered  all  too  keenly  herself  .  .  .  the  instant  of  re 
laxed  blackness  that  followed  on  the  sound  of  Richard 
King's  hearty  voice — "Why,  the  boy's  all  right! 
Ab-so-lutely  all  right!  Isn't  he,  Madeline?  Steady 
as  a  clock.  That  college  nonsense — "  And  the 
contrast  between  that  day  of  faith  triumphant  and 
this  dark  night  was  so  sharp  and  cruel  that  she  could 
not  talk  any  more,  even  to  comfort  Carter.  They 
were  all  silent,  so  that  they  clearly  heard  the  un 
locking,  the  opening,  the  closing  of  the  door  of 
Jimsy's  room,  and  then  a  step — a  swift,  sure  step 
upon  the  stair. 

Then  Yaqui  Juan  walked  into  the  sola. 
228 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


They  sprang  at  him,  galvanized  into 
life  and  vigor  at  the  sight  of  him.  But  he  stood  still, 
staring  at  them  with  a  look  of  scorn  and  dislike,  his 
arms  folded  across  his  chest. 

"Juan/'  Mrs.  King  faltered,— "no  agua?"  It  was 
incredible.  He  was  back,  safely  hack,  untouched,  not 
even  breathing  hard.  Where  was  the  water  he  had 
risked  his  life  to  bring  them?  The  Englishwoman 
began  to  cry,  childishly,  whimpering.  "I  can't  bear 
it  ...  I  can't  bear  it  ...  I  wanted  it  for  Rich' 
.  .  .  forKichM" 

The  Indian  did  not  speak,  but  his  scornful,  accus 
ing  eyes,  raking  them  all,  came  to  rest  on  Honor,  fix 
ing  her  with  pitiless  intensity. 

The  girl  was  shaking  so  that  she  could  hardly 
stand;  she  caught  hold  of  the  back  of  a  tall  chair 
to  steady  herself.  "Juan, — you  came  out  of  Senor 
Don  Diego's  room?"  she  whispered. 

"Si,  Senorita"  He  was  watching  the  dawning 
light  in  her  face,  but  the  sternness  of  his  own  did 
not  soften. 

"You  didn't  go  at  all,"  wept  Mrs.  King,  rocking  to 
and  fro  and  wringing  her  hands.  "You  didn't  go 
at  all!" 

"No,  Senora." 

Honor  Carmody  screamed,  a  hoarse,  exultant  shout. 
229 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


It  was  as  she  had  screamed  in  the  old  good  days  when 
Jimsy  King,  the  ball  clutched  to  his  side,  tore  down 
the  field  and  went  over  the  line  for  a  touchdown. 
"Jimsy  went!  Jimsy  went!  Jlmsy  went!  It  was 
Jimsy !  Jimsy!"  She  flung  her  arms  over  her  head, 
swaying  unsteadily  on  her  feet.  Tears  streamed 
from  her  eyes  and  ran  down  over  her  white  cheeks 
and  into  her  parched  mouth.  In  that  instant  there 
was  room  for  no  fear,  no  terror;  they  would  come 
later,  frantic,  unbearable.  !N"ow  there  was  only 
pride,  pride  and  faith  and  clean  joy.  "Jimsy! 
Jimsy  I"  Her  legs  gave  way  beneath  her  and  she 
slipped  to  the  floor,  but  she  did  not  cease  her  hoarse 
and  pitiful  shouting. 

"How  could  he?"  said  Carter  Van  Meter.  "It 
was  impossible — in  that  condition!  Honor,  he 
couldn't " 

But  Yaqui  Juan  strode  to  the  little  table  where  the 
empty  decanter  stood,  stooped,  picked  up  a  rough  jug 
of  decorative  Mexican  pottery  from  an  under  shelf. 
Then,  pausing  until  he  saw  that  all  their  eyes  were 
upon  him,  he  slowly  poured  its  contents  back  into 
the  decanter.  The  liquor  rose  and  rose  until  it 
reached  the  exact  spot  which  Carter  had  pointed  out 
to  Honor — the  top  of  the  design  engraved  on  the 
glass.  "Mira!"  said  the  Indian,  sternly. 

230 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"God,"  said  Carter  Van  Meter. 

"He  was  acting!  He  was  acting!"  wept  Mrs. 
King. 

But  Jimsy's  Skipper  sat  on  the  floor,  waving  her 
arms,  swaying  her  body  like  a  yell  leader,  still  shout 
ing  his  name  in  her  cracked  voice,  and  then,  crazily, 
her  eyes  wide  as  if  she  visualized  a  field,  far  away, 
a  game,  a  gallant  figure  speeding  to  victory,  she 
sang: 

You  can't  beat  L.  A.  High! 
You  can't  beat  L.  A.  High! 
Use  your  team  to  get  up  steam 
But  you  cant  beat  L.  A.  High! 


CHAPTEK  XVI 

THE  Indian  looked  at  Honor  and  the  bitter 
ness  in  his  eyes  melted  a  little.  "Esta  una 
loca"  he  said. 

It  was  quite  true.  She  was  a  madwoman  for 
the  moment.  They  tried  to  control  her,  to  calm  her, 
but  she  did  not  see  or  hear  them.  "Let  her  alone," 
said  Mrs.  King.  "At  least  she  is  happy,  Carter. 
She'll  realize  his  danger  in  a  minute,  poor  thing." 
She  turned  to  Yaqui  Juan  at  the  sound  of  his  voice. 
He  told  her  that  he  was  going  out  after  his  young 
lord.  He  was  going  to  find  Senor  Don  Diego,  alive 
or  dead.  He  had  promised  him  not  to  leave  the 
locked  room  for  two  hours;  he  had  kept  his  word  as 
long  as  he  could  endure  it.  Senor  Don  Diego  had 
had  time  to  come  back  unless  he  had  been  captured. 
Now  he,  Yaqui  Juan,  whom  the  young  master  had 
once  saved,  would  go  to  him,  to  bring  him  back,  or 
to  die  with  him.  The  solemn,  grandiloquent  words 
had  nothing  of  melodrama  in  them,  falling  from  his 
grave  lips.  He  took  no  pains  to  conceal  his  deep 
scorn  for  them  all. 

232 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


Madeline  King  thought  of  her  husband,  wounded, 
helpless.  "Oh,  Juan — must  you  leave  us?  If — if 
something  has  happened  to  him  it  only  means  your 
life,  too!" 

"Voy/"  said  the  Indian,  "I  go!"  He  turned  and 
looked  again  at  Honor,  this  time  with  a  warming  pity 
in  his  bronze  face.  "I  will  bring  back  your  man, 
Senoriia,"  he  said  in  Spanish.  "And  this  great 
strong  one" — he  pierced  Carter  through  with  his 
black  gaze — "shall  guard  you  till  I  come  again." 
Then  he  smiled  and  flung  at  him  that  stinging  Span 
ish  proverb  which  runs,  "In  the  country  of  the  blind 
the  one-eyed  man  is  king!"  Then  he  went  out  of 
the  house,  dropping  to  his  hands  and  knees,  hugging 
the  shadows,  creeping  along  the  tunnel  of  tropic  green 
which  led  to  the  ancient  well. 

Honor  stopped  her  wild  singing  and  shouting  then, 
but  she  still  sat  on  the  floor,  striking  her  hands  softly 
together,  her  dry  lips  parted  in  a  smile  of  utter 
peace. 

"Come,  Honor,  take  this  chair !"  Carter  urged  her, 
bending  over  her. 

"I  don't  want  a  chair,  Cartie,"  she  said,  gently. 
"I'm  just  waiting  for  Jimsy."  She  looked  up  and 
caught  the  expression  on  Madeline  King's  face. 
"Oh,  you  mustn't  worry,"  she  said,  contentedly. 

233 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"He'll  bring  him  back.  Yaqui  Juan  will.  He'll 
bring  him  back  safe.  Why,  what  kind  of  a  God 
would  that  be? — To  let  anything  happen  to  him, 
now  ?"  Her  defense  was  impregnable. 

"Let  her  alone,"  said  Mrs.  King  again.  "She'll 
realize,  soon  enough,  poor  child.  Stay  with  her, 
Carter.  I  must  go  back  to  my  husband."  She  went 
away  with  a  backward,  pitying  glance  which  yet  held 
understanding.  She  knew  that  danger  and  death 
and  thirst  were  smaller  things  than  shame,  this  wife 
of  a  King  who  had  held  hard  in  her  day. 

Carter  sat  down  and  watched  her  drearily.  He 
wasn't  thinking  now.  He  was  nothing  at  all  but 
one  burning,  choking  thirst,  one  aching  resentment 
.  .  .  Jimsy  King,  who  had  won,  after  all  ...  who 
had  won  alive  or  dead. 

Honor  was  silent  for  the  most  part  but  she  was 
wholly  serene.  Sometimes  she  spoke  and  her  speech 
was  harder  to  bear  than  her  happy  stillness.  "You 
know,  Cartie,  I  can  be  glad  it  happened."  She 
seemed  to  speak  more  easily  now,  almost  as  if  her 
thirst  had  been  slaked ;  her  voice  was  clearer,  steadier. 
"I  should  never  have  known  how  much  I  cared.  It 
was  easy  enough,  wasn't  it,  to  look  at  my  ring  and 
talk  about  'holding  hard'  when  there  wasn't  really 
anything  to  hold  for?  I  really  found  out  about  car- 

234 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


ing  to-night  .  .  .  what  it  means.  I  guess  I  never 
really  loved  him  before  to-night,  Carter."  She  was 
not  looking  at  him,  hardly  talking  to  him ;  she  seemed 
rather  to  be  thinking  aloud.  Even  if  she  had  looked 
him  full  in  the  face  she  would  not  have  realized  what 
she  was  doing  to  him ;  there  was  only  one  realization 
for  her  now.  "I  guess  I  just  loved  what  he  was — 
his  glorious  body  and  his  eyes  and  the  way  his  hair 
will  wave — and  what  he  could  do — the  winning,  the 
people  cheering  him.  But  to-night,  when  I  thought — 
when  I  believed  the  very  worst  thing  in  the  world 
of  him — when  I  thought  he  had  failed  me — then  I 
found  out.  Then  I  knew  I  loved — him."  She  leaned 
her  head  back  against  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  her 
hands  rested,  palm  upward,  in  her  lap.  "It's  worth 
everything  that's  happened,  to  know  that."  She  was 
mercifully  still  again.  Carter  thought  once  that  she 
must  be  asleep,  she  was  breathing  so  softly  and  evenly, 
but  after  a  long  pause  she  asked,  with  a  shade  of  dif 
ference  in  her  tone,  "How  long  has  Juan  been  gone, 
Carter?" 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  "Twenty  minutes.  Per 
haps  half  an  hour." 

Honor  rose  to  her  feet.  "Well,  then,"  she  said 
with  conviction,  "they'll  be  here  soon !  Any  minute, 


now." 


235 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"They  may  not  come."  He  could  not  help  saying 
it. 

"Oh,  they'll  come!  They'll  come  very — "  she 
stopped  short  at  the  sound  of  a  shot.  "What  was 
that?"  she  asked,  childishly. 

"That  was  a  shot,"  said  Carter,  watching  her 
face. 

"But  it  wouldn't  hurt  Jimsy  or  Juan.  They're 
nearly  here !  That  was  far  away,  wasn't  it,  Carter  ?" 
Still  her  bright  serenity  held  fear  at  bay. 

"Not  very  far,  Honor."  He  wanted  to  see  that 
calm  of  hers  broken  up;  he  wanted  cruelly  to  make 
her  sense  the  danger. 

"But,  Cartie,"  she  explained  to  him,  patiently, 
"you  know  nothing  is  going  to  happen  to  Jimsy 
now,  when  I've  just  begun  really  to  care  for  him !" 
She  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out  on  the  veranda, 
and  he  followed  her.  "See — it's  almost  morning!" 
The  east  was  gray  and  there  was  a  drowsy  twittering 
of  birds. 

"It's  the  false  dawn,"  said  Carter  stubbornly. 
"Listen — "  another  shot  rang  out,  then  three  in 
quick  succession.  "I  believe  they're  chasing  Juan!" 

The  Mexican  who  was  on  guard  held  up  a  hand, 
commanding  them  to  listen.  They  held  their  breath. 
Through  the  soft  silence  they  began  to  get  the  sound 

236 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


of  running  feet,  stumbling  feet,  running  with  diffi 
culty,  and  in  another  moment,  up  the  green  lane  came 
Yaqui  Juan,  bent  almost  double  with  the  weight  of 
Jimsy  King  across  his  back. 

"Honor !"  Carter  tried  to  catch  her.  "Come  back ! 
You  mustn't —  Are  you  crazy  ?" 

But  Honor  and  the  Mexican  who  had  been  on 
guard  at  the  steps  were  running,  side  by  side,  to  meet 
them.  Yaqui  Juan  flung  a  word  to  the  peon  and  he 
stood  with  his  gun  leveled,  covering  the  path. 

"Mira!"  said  the  Indian,  proudly.  "Senorita,  I 
have  brought  back  your  man!" 

"Skipper,"  cried  Jimsy  King  in  a  strong  voice, 
"get  in  the  house !  Get  in!  I'm  all  right !" 

Then,  unaccountably,  inconsistently,  all  the  terror 
she  had  not  suffered  before  laid  hold  on  her.  "Jim 
sy  !  You're  hurt !  You're  wounded !" 

"Just  a  cut  on  the  leg,  Skipper!  That's  why  I 
was  so  slow.  It's  nothing,  I  tell  you, — get  in  the 
house !" 

But  Honor,  running  beside  them,  trying  to  carry 
a  part  of  him,  kept  pace  beside  them  until  Yaqui 
Juan  had  carried  Jimsy  into  the  house  and  up  the 
stairs  and  laid  him  on  his  own  bed. 

"There  are  five  canteens,"  said  Jimsy.  "Here — 
one's  for  you,  Skipper.  Take  the  rest  to  Mrs.  King, 

237 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


Juan.  Skipper,  drink  it.  Just  a  little  at  first,  you 
know — careful !  Don't  you  hear  what  I'm  saying  to 
you?  Drink — the  water — out  of  this  canteen!" 

Mechanically,  her  eyes  always  on  his  face,  Honor 
loosened  the  cap  and  opened  the  canteen  and  drank. 

"There, — that's  enough !"  said  Jimsy,  sharply. 
"Now,  wait  five  minutes  before  you  take  any  more." 
He  took  the  canteen  away  from  her.  "Sit  down!" 
He  was  not  meeting  her  eyes. 

"Did  you  have  any,  Jimsy  ?" 

"Gallons.  I  didn't  have  any  trouble  to  speak  of, 
really.  Only  one  fellow  actually  on  guard.  We  had 
a  little  rough-house.  He  struck  me  in  the  leg,  and 
it  bled  a  lot.  That's  what  kept  me.  And  it  took — • 
some  time — with  him." 

"Jimsy,  is  it  bad?  Is  it  still  bleeding?  Let  me 
see!" 

He  pushed  her  away,  almost  roughly.  "It's  all 
right.  Juan  tied  it  up.  It'll  do.  I  guess  you  can 
have  a  little  more  water,  now, — but  take  it  slow 
ly.  ...  There !  Now  you'd  better  go  and  see  about 
the  rest.  Don't  let  them  take  too  much  at  first." 

"I'm  not  going  away,"  said  Honor,  quietly.  "I'm 
not  going  to  leave  you  again,  ever."  She  pulled  her 
chair  close  beside  the  bed  and  took  his  hand  in  both 
of  hers.  "Jimsy,  I  know.  I  know  everything." 

238 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


"That  darn'  Indian/'  said  Jimsy,  crossly.  "If  he'd 
stayed  in  here,  with  the  door  locked !  I'd  have  been 
back  in  half  an  hour  longer." 

"And  he  poured  the  whisky  back  into  the  de 
canter.  Oh,  Jimsy " 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  was  a  fool  stunt,  but  I  knew 
I  could  put  it  over.  I  did  a  booze-fighter  in  the 
Junior  play, — and  I  guess  it  comes  pretty  easy!" 
He  turned  away  from  her,  his  face  to  the  wall.  "I'd 
like  to  be  alone,  now,  Skipper.  You'd  better  look 
after  Cart'.  Watch  him  on  the  water.  He'll  kill 
himself  if  he  takes  too  much." 

"Jimsy,  I'm  not  going  to  leave  you." 

He  lifted  himself  on  his  elbow.  "Skipper,  dear," 
he  said  gently,  "what's  the  use  ?  I  suppose  I  took  a 
crazy  kid  way  to  show  you  I  wasn't  worth  your  stick 
ing  to,  and  I  guess  I'm  not,  if  it  comes  to  that,  but 
the  fact  remains,  and  we  can't  get  away  from  it." 

"What  fact,  Jimsy?" 

"That  you— care— for  Carter." 

"Jimsy,  have  you  lost  your  senses?  I — care  for 
C arier?" 

"He  told  me." 

"Then,"  said  Honor,  her  eyes  darkening,  "he  told 
you  a  lie." 

He  dropped  back  on  the  pillow.  He  had  lost  a  lot 
239 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


of  blood  before  Yaqui  Juan  found  him  and  tied  up 
his  cut,  and  he  looked  white  and  spent.  "Oh,  Skip 
per,  please.  .  .  .  Let's  not  drag  it  out.  I  saw  your 
message  to  him." 

"What  message?" 

"The  one  you  sent  to  the  steamer,  after  he'd  lost 
his  head  and  told  you  he  loved  you, — and — and  asked 
you  if  you  loved  him."  Difficult  words;  grotesque 
and  meaningless,  but  he  must  manage  with  them. 
"I'm  not  blaming  you,  Skipper.  I  know  I'm  slow  in 
the  head  beside  Cart'  and  he  can  give  you  a  lot  that  I 
can't.  And  nothing — hanging  over  him.  You'd  have 
played  the  game  through  to  the  last  gun ;  I  know  that. 
But  it  wouldn't  have  been  right  for  any  of  us.  I'm 
glad  Cart'  blew  up  and  told  me." 

Honor  laid  his  hand  gently  back  on  the  bedspread 
of  exquisite  Mexican  drawnwork  and  stood  up.  "Car 
ter  showed  you  the  telegram  I  sent  him  from  Genoa  ?" 

"Yes.     He  carries  it  always  in  his  wallet." 

"He  told  you  it  meant  that  I  loved  him?" 

"Skipper,  don't  feel  like  that  about  it.  It  had  to 
come  out,  some  time."  His  voice  sounded  weary  and 
weak. 

She  bent  over  him,  speaking  gently.  "Be  quiet, 
Jimsy ;  lie  still.  I'm  going  to  bring  Carter  up  here." 

"Oh,  Skipper,  what's  the  use?  You — you  make 
240 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


me  wish  that  greaser  had  finished  me,  down  at  the 
well.    Please " 

"Wait!" 

He  heard  her  feet  in  the  hall,  flying  down  the 
stairs,  and  he  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  again,  his 
young  mouth  quivering. 

She  found  Carter  lying  on  the  wide  couch,  one  arm 
trailing  limply  over  the  side  of  it,  the  emptied  canteen 
dangling  from  his  hand,  and  he  was  breathing  with 
difficulty.  His  face  was  darkly  mottled  and  congested 
but  Honor  did  not  notice  it.  "Carter,"  she  said,  "I 
want  you  to  come  with  me  and  tell  Jimsy  how  you 
lied  to  him.  I  want  you  to  tell  him  what  my  mes 
sage  really  meant." 

"I — can't  come — now,"  he  gasped.     "I  can't — " 
he  tried  to  raise  himself  but  he  fell  back  on  the  pil-' 
lows. 

"Then  give  me  your  wallet,"  she  said,  implacably, 
bending  over  him. 

"No,  no!  It  isn't  there — wait!  By  and  by 
I'll "  but  his  eyes  betrayed  him. 

Eoughly,  with  fierce  haste,  she  thrust  her  hand  into 
his  coat  pocket  and  pulled  out  his  wallet  of  limp 
leather  with  the  initials  in  slimly  wrought  gold  let 
ters. 

"Please,  Honor !    Please, — let  me — I'll  give  you — 
241 


PLAY  THE  GAME 


Pll  find  it — "  he  clutched  a,t  her  dress  but  she  stepped 
back  from  the  couch  and  he  lost  his  balance  and  fell 
heavily  to  the  floor. 

When  she  pulled  out  the  bit  of  closely  folded  paper 
with  a  sharp  sound  of  triumph  there  came  with  it  a 
thick  letter  which  dropped  on  the  red  tiles.  He 
snatched  at  it  but  Honor's  downward  swoop  was 
swifter.  She  stood  staring  at  it,  her  eyes  opening 
wider  and  wider,  turning  the  plump  letter  in  her 
hands. 

"Jimsy's  letter  to  me,"  she  said  at  last  in  a  flat, 
curious  tone.  "The  one  he  gave  you  to  mail."  She 
was  not  exclamatory.  She  was  too  utterly  stunned 
for  that.  She  seemed  to  be  considering  a  course  of 
action,  her  brows  drawn.  "I  won't  tell  Jimsy ;  I'm — 
afraid  of  what  he'd  do.  I'll  let  him  go  on  believing 
in  you,  if  you  go  away." 

He  looked  up  at  her  from  his  horrid  huddle  on  the 
floor,  through  his  bloodshot  eyes,  the  boy  who  had 
taught  her  so  much  about  books  and  plays  and  din 
ners  in  restaurants  and  the  right  sort  of  music  to  ad 
mire,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  long  known,  long 
loved  face  was  a  wholly  strange  one,  sharply  chiseled 
from  cold  stone. 

"If  you'll  go  away,"  she  went  on,  "I  won't  tell  him 
about  the  letter."  She  was  looking  at  him  curiously, 

242 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


as  if  she  had  never  seen  him  before.  "All  these  years 
I've  been  sorry  for  you  because  you  limped.  But  I 
haven't  been  sorry  enough.  I  see  now;  it's — your 
soul  that  limps.  Well,  you  must  limp  away,  out  of 
our  lives.  I  won't  have  you  near  us.  You've  tried 
and  tried  to  drag  him  down  but  something — some 
where — has  held  him  up!  As  soon  as  help  comes — • 
to-morrow — to-day — I'm  going  to  marry  him,  here,  in 
Mexico,  and  I'll  never  leave  him  again  as  long  as  we 
live.  Do  you  hear  ?" 

She  turned  to  go,  but  he  made  a  smothered,  inar 
ticulate  sound  and  she  looked  down  at  him,  and  down 
and  down,  to  the  depths  where  he  lay.  "You  poor — 
thing,"  she  said,  gently.  "Oh,  you  poor  thing !" 

She  ran  up  to  Jimsy  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
his  bed  and  gathered  him  into  her  arms,  so  that  his 
head  rested  on  her  breast.  "Carter — poor  Carter," 
she  said,  "is  too  weak  to  come  upstairs  now,  but  I 
am  going  to  tell  you  the  whole  truth,  and  you  are 
going  to  believe  me.  Listen,  dearest " 

They  were  still  like  that,  still  talking,  when  Made 
line  King  rushed  into  the  room.  "Children,"  she 
cried,  "oh,  my  dears — haven't  you  heard  them  ?  Don't 
you  know  ?" 

"No,"  they  told  her,  smiling  with  courteous  young 
attention. 

243 


PLAY  THE  GAME! 


"They're  here— tlie  soldiers  I  It's  aU  right !"  She 
was  crying  contentedly.  "Rich'  is  conscious, — he  un 
derstands.  My  dears,  we're  saved !  I  tell  yon  we're 
saved!" 

"Oh,  we  knew  that,"  said  Honor,  gravely. 


(4) 


ABSORBING    NEW    FICTION 

THE  MEREDITH  MYSTERY 

By  NATALIE  SUMNER  LINCOLN,  author  of  "The 

Cat's  Paw,"  etc. 

Ingenuity  in  constructing  baffling  mystery  stories  and 
skill  in  narrating  them  are  characteristic  of  Miss  Lin 
coln.  Here  is  one  of  her  best,  with  some  new  elements. 
The  successful  efforts  of  the  blind  surgeon  to  clear  the 
girl  he  loves  from  a  murder  charge  make  a  splendid 
story. 

CORDUROY 

By  RUTH  COMFORT  MITCHELL,  author  of  "Play 

the  Game,"  etc. 

The  standards  of  Boston  and  of  a  California  ranch 
shrewdly  and  sympathetically  handled  in  a  delicious  ro 
mance  full  of  charm  and  vitality.  The  efforts  of 
"Ginger"  and  her  New  England  lover  to  meet  each 
other's  requirements  result  in  a  tense  and  appealing 
story. 

MARY  CINDERELLA  BROWN 

By  DOROTHY  WHITEHILL 

The  remarkable  and  delightful  things  that  happened 
to  Mary  Cinderella  Brown  and  Peter  Ashton  when 
the  ragged  little  girl  and  the  rich  young  man  happened 
to  meet  at  a  drama  -  moment.  Two  kinds  of  romance 
delightfully  unfolded. 

WALTER  OF  TIVERTON 

By  BERNARD  MARSHALL,  author  of  "Cedric  the 

Forester." 

A  swift  moving  story  of  adventure  and  romance  in 
the  wild  days  when  Prince  John  ruled  England  in  the 
absence  of  Richard  Coeur-De-Lion.  A  picture  of  life 
in  that  confused  time,  with  a  glimpse  at  historic  charac 
ters,  but  a  thrilling  story  first  and  last. 

THE  WOLF  TRAIL 

By  ROGER  POCOCK 

A  vivid  story  of  adventure,  which  covers  the  sea  in 
the  wild  rough  days  of  sailing  ships,  and  also  Indian 
life  in  the^Canadian  Northwest.  A  rich  vein  of  romance 
and  of  spiritual  feeling  runs  through  the  action,  adding 
a  distinctive  appeal. 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
New  York  London 


Novels  for  Cheerful  Entertainment 


GALUSHA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln 
Author  of  "Shavings,"  "The  Portygee,"  tic. 

The  whole  family  will  laugh  over  this  deliciously  humorous  novel,  that 
pictures  the  sunny  side  of  small-town  life,  and  contains  love-making, 
a  dash  of  mystery,  an  epidemic  of  spook-chasing — and  laughable, 
lovable  Galusha. 

THESE   YOUNG  REBELS 

By  Frances  R.  Sterrett 
Author  of  "  Nancy  Goes  to  Town,"  "  Up  the  Road  with  Sally,"  etc. 

A  sprightly  novel  that  hits  off  to  perfection  the  present  antagonism 
between  the  rebellious  younger  generation  and  their  disapproving  elders. 

PLAY  THE  GAME 

By  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 

A  happy  story  about  American  young  people.  The  appealing  qualities 
of  a  brave  young  girl  stand  out  in  the  strife  between  two  young  fellows, 
the  one  by  fair  the  other  by  foul  means,  to  win  her. 

IN  BLESSED  CYRUS 

By  Laura  E.  Richards 
Author  of  "A  Daughter  of  Jehu"  etc. 

The  quaint,  quiet  village  of  Cyrus,  with  its  whimsical  villagers,  is  abruptly 
turned  topsy-turvy  by  the  arrival  in  its  midst  of  an  actress,  distractingly 
feminine,  Lila  Laughter;  and,  at  the  same  time,  an  epidemic  of  small-pox. 

HELEN  OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE 

By  Harold  Bell  Wright 

Wright's  greatest  novel,  that  presents  the  life  of  industry  to-day,  the 
laughter,  the  tears,  the  strivings  of  those  who  live  about  the  smoky 
chimneys  of  an  American  industrial  town. 

NEW  YORK     D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY     LONDON 


NOVELS  OF  OUTSTANDING  INTEREST 


DOCTOR  NYE 

By  JOSEPH  C.  LINCOLN,  author  of  "Fair  Harbor," 

"Galusha  the  Magnificent,"  etc.  $2.00 

All  the  atmosphere  and  humor  typical  of  Lincoln's 

stories,  with  an  absorbing  plot  of  the  strongest  human 

appeal. 

NORTH  OF  36 

By  EMERSON   HOUGH,   author  of   "The  Covered 

Wagon,"  etc.  $2.00 

^  Again  Mr.  Hough  scores  with  a  splendid  romance  of 
pioneer  days,  this  time  with  an  epic  of  the  old  Texas 
cattle  trail. 

FIRES  OF  AMBITION 

By    GEORGE    GIBBS,    author   of    "The    House    of 
Mohun,"  "The  Yellow  Dove,"  etc.  $2.00 

Mary  Ryan,  red-haired,  gifted  and  ambitious,  faces 
the  business  world  and  the  problems  of  modern  Ameri 
can  life. 

THE  RIVER  TRAIL 

By  LAURIE  YORKE  ERSKINE,  author  of  "Renfrew 

of  the  Royal  Mounted."  $1.75 

Adventure  and  romance  in  the  Canadian  Northwest. 

The  action  results  from  a  plot  to  gain  possession  of 

valuable  land. 

FRIDAY  TO  MONDAY 

By  WILLIAM  GARRETT  $2.00 

A  well  written  mystery  story  with  an  unusual  and 
interesting  group  of  characters,  a  new  sort  of  detective, 
and  plenty  of  thrills. 

THE  SQUIRE 

By  LAURA  E.  RICHARDS,  author  of  "In  Blessed 
Cyrus,"  etc.  $2.00 

How  old  Squire  Tertius  Quint,  of  Cyrus  Village,  re 
fused  to  be  shelved,  but  mixed  actively  in  interesting 
current  affairs. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
New  York  London 


VB  33455 


663623 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


